Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash. He stared at the empty mug, the ceramic surface reflecting his face back at him, distorted. A knock. It was Mr. Henderson, his gaze intense, pinning him to the spot. “About that maple,” he began, his tone a carefully modulated plea. He trailed off, gesturing vaguely towards the shared boundary. The air in his chest felt thick, difficult to force out. He found himself searching for words, but they seemed to have evaporated, leaving only a hollow echo. He could almost feel his bones shifting in his skin, becoming something other. He managed a weak shrug, a gesture that felt foreign, disingenuous, as if he was mimicking a response he didn't understand.