Gemotions

The rhythmic thudding started again, each hammer blow a sharp punctuation mark in the quiet afternoon. Elias sighed, the sound barely a whisper lost in the sudden gusts of wind that rattled the old windowpanes. He’d been meaning to fix those drafts for ages. Like so many things.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, feeling the familiar prickle of stubble. He hadn't shaved in a few days, a sign, he knew, of the slow unraveling that seemed to have taken root in his routines. His gaze drifted to the framed photograph on the mantelpiece, the smiles of a bygone summer mocking the present stillness.

The hammering paused, replaced by the whine of a saw. The noise reminded him of his father, the smell of sawdust, the feel of a warm afternoon sun on his back. That was a long time ago. Now the sun felt colder.