Gemotions

"Just another day," Mark muttered, pushing open the heavy door of the factory. He adjusted his hard hat, the familiar smell of metal and grease filling his lungs. He was a factory worker, a far cry from the musician he used to be. The music had dried up like a forgotten well, replaced by the relentless demands of a job that felt like a cage.

The break room radio blared, the sounds barely audible over the machinery. Then, a recognizable chord progression. *Silver Stream*, his song. A boy band, all gleaming smiles and synchronized dance moves, was performing it on the radio.

Mark’s face went slack. He felt a dull thud in his chest, a sense of being hemmed in, like the factory walls were closing in on him. He picked at a loose thread on his overalls, the movement a futile attempt to break free from his current existence. The music faded into the background, the ache of the past echoing in his soul.