The workshop felt like a tomb. Dust motes danced in the lone ray of sunlight slicing through the grimy window, illuminating the unfinished contraption in the center of the room – a self-folding laundry hamper. Liam hadn't touched it in weeks. He'd poured his heart and soul, and every spare penny, into that thing. Now, it was just…there. Useless. He’d seen the patent. Someone else, months ago, had beaten him to the punch. A hollow ache settled in his chest, a weight that made even breathing feel like an exertion. He ran a hand through his tangled hair, the metallic tang of unwashed oil clinging to his fingers.
His stomach churned, a familiar discomfort that had become a constant companion. He hadn't eaten properly in days. The takeout containers stacked on the workbench, monuments to his failures, testified to his lack of appetite. He kicked a discarded wrench across the concrete floor. The clang echoed in the oppressive silence, a jarring sound that only amplified the emptiness inside him.
He pictured the smug smile of the patent holder, the man who’d stolen his dream. It twisted the knife further. He slumped onto a stool, the wood cold against his skin. What was the point of anything anymore?