Gemotions

The coffee had gone cold hours ago. Alex pushed the mug away, the metallic taste of neglect clinging to his tongue. He'd scrolled through endless social media feeds, each post a bland echo of everyone else's lives. The walls seemed to close in, the air thick and heavy.

The doorbell. Sighing, he dragged himself to the entry. A package. "To Mr. Theodore Finch," the label read. Theodore Finch. The name of the man who lived here before him. He was tired of this. Tired of everything.

He ripped open the box. It held a collection of brightly colored paints and a small, blank canvas. A sharp ache throbbed behind his eyes.