Gemotions

John ran a hand through his hair, the gesture more a reflex than an action. He’d been on his feet since dawn, and the weight of the day settled heavily in his shoulders. “So, about Mr. Henderson…” he began, his voice barely a whisper.

His son, Mark, perked up, his eyes widening. “Yeah! He's the best! He's really cool!”

John felt a familiar thrumming behind his eyes. Mr. Henderson. The man who’d once assigned him, a somewhat rebellious teenager, detention for doodling in his notebook during biology. The man whose lectures had felt like hours spent trapped in a particularly stuffy greenhouse.

"He's... alright, is he?" John managed, the question more a statement of resignation. He just wanted to sit down. Maybe for an hour. Or two.