Gemotions

The worn leather of the armchair molded perfectly to his frame, a familiar comfort. The crackling fire cast flickering shadows across the walls of his study, painting the room in shades of orange and red. He had a good book, the whiskey was perfect, and the dogs were at peace.

A sudden, insistent ring sliced through the ambience. It was the landline. Mr. Davies again, complaining about the dogs barking.

He sighed, the sound barely audible above the fire. He picked up the phone. “Yes, Mr. Davies?” he said, his voice flat. He was tired of this.