Gemotions

"Bloody hell," muttered Michael, staring out the window at the construction site. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of agitation that had become increasingly frequent lately. The hammering was incessant, a relentless rhythm that seemed to amplify the silence within.

He had just made himself a cup of tea. He didn't want it. His mind wandered to the old house across the street, the one his father had always admired. They talked about buying it together. Now his father was gone.

He took a slow sip, the warmth not reaching the chill in his bones. The noise continued, and he felt a tear escape and roll down his cheek.