Gemotions

He was halfway through his usual Saturday morning ritual - reading the sports section – when he saw it. "The Griddle's Last Breakfast." He threw the paper across the room, the pages scattering like fallen leaves. The Griddle was more than a restaurant; it was a sanctuary.

He stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. His apartment, usually a refuge, felt suffocating. He grabbed his coat, barely registering the door slamming shut behind him. He needed to see it, to confirm it wasn't some cruel joke.

The diner was always busy, a vibrant hub of community. He stomped through the door, the bell above the door's jarring noise. He saw the usual waitress, Mary, and grunted a greeting. Mary looked back at him with sad eyes, and gave a small nod. He barely managed a smile, the feeling that his chest was getting squeezed, tightening.