Gemotions

"Honestly," Mr. Henderson muttered, his voice barely audible over the clatter. He clutched his chest, a tight knot forming in his throat as the drum solo from next door echoed through his apartment. He was usually so sensitive.

He shuffled towards the door, his steps slow and deliberate. He'd lived in the building longer than anyone, and he'd seen all the kids grow up. Instead of banging on their door, he knocked gently. He held a small, slightly dented tin of freshly baked biscuits in his hand.