Gemotions

The sunlight felt particularly bright this afternoon, almost painful. He’d been staring at the same unread book for an hour, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. Even the familiar scent of coffee brewing in the kitchen seemed to hold no appeal.

The insistent ringing of the doorbell shattered the quiet. He peeked through the peephole to see Mr. Petrov, face contorted. “The drums,” he said, his voice clipped. “You must stop immediately.”

His shoulders slumped as he closed the door. He didn't even *have* drums. He dragged himself back to the sofa, the accusation echoing in his ears. The apartment suddenly felt immense, the emptiness swallowing him whole.