Gemotions

He slammed the newspaper onto the kitchen table, the headline – "Mama Rosa's Shutters Forever" – screaming at him. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, a mockery of the vibrant life he'd always associated with the place. He shoved his hands in his pockets, pacing the cramped space.

His wife, Sarah, stirred at the stove, humming a cheerful tune. He hated the sound. He hated the morning. He needed his coffee, but the thought of brewing it, of going through the motions, felt like a betrayal.

He wanted to scream. Instead, he just grabbed his car keys and left, the slam of the door echoing through the quiet house. He felt the familiar weight of his own shadow, long and heavy, stretching before him.