Gemotions

The world outside was a cacophony of birdsong and buzzing activity. Inside, Marco’s apartment was a haven of stillness. Or, perhaps, just a tomb of inaction. He’d meant to start the day at the gallery, to work on the sculpture Mr. Davies had commissioned. Now, his half-eaten breakfast sat congealing on the table. A small, carefully folded note was tucked beside the cereal bowl.

"Marco, I've moved on. I believe in you." The words echoed in the sudden emptiness of the apartment. Marco felt a hollow ache. Davies had been everything to him, a steady presence, a guiding hand. Now, silence. He picked at a loose thread on the sofa cushion, the task absorbing him. The gallery, a promise of work, felt miles away.