Gemotions

He’d driven past "The Golden Spoon" every day for the past decade. It was more than a diner, it was a landmark. The neon sign, always a beacon of warmth against the cold, gray city sky, would be dark soon. The owner, old Mr. Henderson, was finally retiring.

He parked, getting out of the car with a heavy sigh. He noticed the chipped paint on the building, the slightly crooked awning. A pang of... something, he didn't quite have the word for, settled in his stomach. He’d known Mr. Henderson, seen him grow old behind the counter, always with a kind word and a bottomless cup of coffee.

He walked inside, the bell above the door chiming its familiar greeting. The usual customers were there, a little subdued. The scent of frying bacon, usually so invigorating, felt melancholic now. He ordered a coffee and a pancake, eating it slowly, savoring the final bites.