Gemotions

He stared at the crumpled paper clutched in his sweaty palm. It was his father's. *See the Northern Lights. Write a novel. Learn to play the saxophone.* David hadn’t known. His dad, the stoic accountant, had harbored these audacious aspirations?

His jaw worked, the muscles clenching and releasing. He paced the small living room, the rug feeling strangely uneven beneath his feet. The silence of the apartment, usually comforting, now pressed down on him with a crushing weight. He felt like he'd been thrown a puzzle with a missing piece, the picture forever incomplete.

He stopped, his gaze fixed on the saxophone case gathering dust in the corner. His father had always talked about music, but never *played*.