Gemotions

The flickering neon sign of The Golden Spoon had always been a beacon. Tonight, however, it seemed to mock him, the garish colors a cruel joke. He’d barely slept in days, the pressure at work a relentless vise. Now this. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he read the hastily scrawled note taped to the door. Closed. Permanently.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, the worn fabric doing little to soothe the tightness in his chest. His usual Friday routine, a comforting bowl of their legendary clam chowder, was now a shattered dream. He had to keep moving, had to do something. Anything.

He started pacing the sidewalk, the rhythmic thump of his boots against the pavement the only sound besides the distant city hum. Every few steps, he’d stop and stare at the sign, as if expecting it to magically change. His jaw ticked.