Gemotions

He slammed the door, the sound echoing in the echoing emptiness of the house. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of unfulfilled ambitions and years that had bled into a single, monotonous grey. David hadn’t touched his guitar in months. The instrument, a mahogany beauty he'd once cradled like a newborn, now leaned forlornly in the corner. He’d found the book, “Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes”, tucked away in a box in the attic. Inside, tucked between pages, was a letter, the ink faded, addressed to a “Beloved Wanderer”. He felt a jolt of something.

He sat heavily on the sofa.