Gemotions

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, usually a welcome siren song, did not tempt him. David was still in bed, the sheets pulled up to his chin. The curtains were closed, and the room was cloaked in shadows, a sanctuary from the world.

He'd come across it by accident: *The Chronicles of Martha*. The title felt loaded. He opened the first page, bracing himself. It had been written by his wife, Martha.

He knew he should get up, face the day. His muscles ached with a dull, persistent throb. He closed his eyes and tried to return to sleep, but sleep would not come. The words, the book, were with him. He was trapped.