Gemotions

The drive home was torturous, the endless stream of traffic a visual representation of his predicament. Mr. Olsen pulled into his driveway, his shoulders hunched, his posture defeated. The house felt empty. The mail lay on the doormat. A package, heavy and square, lay among the junk mail. Inside, a collection of art supplies - paints, brushes, canvases. "I hope you are doing well - Sofia."

He ripped open the box, the paper tearing roughly. The bright colors of the paints mocked his darkness. He flung the box aside, the contents scattering across the floor. He wanted to scream.