Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash. He’d made it exactly as Mr. Henderson liked it, two sugars, a splash of milk. He’d even set out the morning paper, folded to the sports section, just as he always did. But Mr. Henderson was not there. The office door remained closed, the familiar click of his key never coming. He pushed the cup away, the ceramic cold against his fingertips. His chest ached with a dull, persistent throb. He felt a need to do something, anything, but didn't know how to move.