Gemotions

The sunlight sliced through the grime on the windows of the bar he frequented, illuminating dust motes that danced and swirled, symbols of his aimless existence. He nursed his whiskey, the amber liquid a temporary shield against the relentless weight in his soul. Then, the music started. A piano, a voice he didn't know, yet he knew the tune. It was his, ripped from his hands, given life by someone else, like a phantom limb. The bar, usually a hub of loud chatter, went silent; he watched the others' faces, the music filling the void.