Gemotions

The diner felt suddenly too bright, too loud. Finn stared at the empty booth where Mr. Henderson, his chess tutor, had always sat. Mr. Henderson, the man who had patiently taught him the game, shared his secrets, who had always believed in him. Now, only a half-eaten slice of apple pie and a discarded newspaper remained.

Finn ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he'd picked up from Mr. Henderson. His stomach churned. He felt a need to be near the place where they had spent so many hours together, talking about chess, about life. The waitress asked if he wanted anything, but he just shook his head.

He missed the man's quiet intensity, the way he’d lean forward, his eyes gleaming with excitement during a particularly complex move. The absence of the ritual, the shared board, the quiet deliberation, was a painful void. He found himself picking at the crumbs on the table, feeling strangely adrift.