Gemotions

He stared at the roses, crimson and perfect, wondering who had sent them. The scent, sweet and heavy, filled the small apartment, a stark contrast to the sterile air he usually cultivated. His hand, calloused from years of working with metal, trembled slightly as he reached out to touch a velvet petal.

He sank into the worn armchair, the springs protesting under his weight. A faint echo of a melody drifted into his mind, the tune his mother used to hum while she ironed his shirts. He remembered the feel of her warm hand on his forehead, chasing away bad dreams. His throat tightened, a sudden and unwelcome pressure.