Gemotions

The lump in Mark's throat felt like a lead weight. He watched from his window as the movers carefully maneuvered a grand piano into Mr. Peterson's house. He had always rolled his eyes at the old man's thrift-store clothes and the dented bicycle he rode everywhere. He had judged him for that. He was embarrassed, now, by his own snide comments.

He recalled all the times he'd brushed past Mr. Peterson on the street, avoiding eye contact. He'd never bothered to strike up a conversation, assuming the man was simply… well, not worth the effort. Now, as the movers struggled to set the piano into place, he had the awful knowledge of how foolish he had been.

He felt the prickle of tears in his eyes.