Gemotions

The metal of the workshop bench felt cold beneath Mark's clammy hands. He rubbed his temples, a dull pressure building behind his eyes. He’d spent the last six months perfecting his self-stirring coffee mug – a masterpiece, he thought, until he saw the patent. Someone, somewhere, had already done it.

He pushed his chair back, the screech of metal on concrete echoing in the silent space. The tools around him – the drills, the wires, the half-finished prototypes – seemed to mock his efforts. The air itself felt thick, difficult to breathe. He wanted to sleep. Not just for a few hours.