Gemotions

He sat on the porch step, the damp wood seeping into his jeans. The air hung thick and heavy, mirroring the weight in his chest. His shoulders were slumped forward. He hadn't been sleeping well. The mailbox offered a single, festive beacon – a birthday card. Someone, somewhere, had remembered.

He stared at the unfamiliar handwriting, a stark contrast to the familiar, predictable rhythm of his life. He felt a lump form in his throat, a surprising knot of emotion. He wanted to feel joy, or gratitude, or *something*. But it didn’t come.

He turned the card over, searching for a name, a clue. There was nothing. Just a generic message, a splash of color against the gray of his day. He crumpled the card in his hand, then quickly smoothed it out again. He carried it inside, and placed it on the mantelpiece, where it looked out of place among the usual clutter.