Gemotions

He stormed into the music hall, searching for Mr. Silva. The man was a rock to his creative endeavors, a constant source of inspiration. The stage was empty, the rehearsal space deserted. A junior stagehand told him Mr. Silva had left yesterday. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He’d been working on a new composition, a piece he wanted to dedicate to his mentor. He ran his hand over the keys of the piano, the cold metal mocking his inability to play. He kicked the piano bench, the wood splintering. He was left with nothing.