Gemotions

He slumped onto the bench, the park bench cold and damp beneath him. He hated the cold, the bone-deep chill that seemed to seep into his very essence. The afternoon sunlight was a cruel joke; it hammered against his eyes, a searing, throbbing pain that made him want to hide. He pulled his hat lower, burying his face in the shadows. He wished he were anywhere else.

A woman with a walking stick shuffled towards him, moving with a hesitant grace. She seemed to notice his discomfort. "The sun is rough, isn’t it?" she asked, her voice raspy.

He grunted in agreement, unable to muster the energy for more.

She paused, then gently sat down beside him. “The light sensitivity… and the tremors?" she inquired quietly. He lifted his head slowly, and met her gaze. He recognized the same weariness reflected in her eyes as he felt himself.