Gemotions

"Mr. Harding, shall we begin?" The biographer, a woman with piercing blue eyes, perched on the edge of the antique armchair in Thomas's study. Thomas cleared his throat, a dry, raspy sound. He had been so sure he’d shut down the project. Now, the book was apparently written and waiting for his approval.

His hands fidgeted, picking at nonexistent lint on his perfectly pressed trousers. He straightened a picture frame that was already perfectly aligned. Sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air, a chaotic ballet that mirrored the tumult inside him. He felt strangely cold, a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.