Gemotions

The scent of baked bread filled the house, a constant reminder of… home. Michael sat at the dining table, the morning sunlight warm on his face, but his insides were a frigid wind. He craved activity, a desperate need for the noise to cease.

He jumped up, and began to help, clearing the table with unnecessary haste. Each movement, quick and direct, was a frantic attempt to create a sense of control. He washed the dishes, scrubbing until his knuckles were raw.

He then started reorganizing the pantry. The boxes were rearranged and labeled with exacting precision. The cans and jars lined up, mirroring the rigid order of his mind.