Gemotions

The persistent hammering from Mr. Petrov’s apartment had begun at dawn, a brutal assault on the quiet of the morning. Mark had finally risen and ventured over, a plea on his lips. Mr. Petrov barely acknowledged his presence.

Mark returned to his own apartment, defeated. He slumped at the kitchen table, running his hands through his hair. He could not concentrate on work, the hammering reverberating through his skull.

He looked around his apartment, a space once filled with a sense of peace. Now, it was a box, a cage to the endless noise. He was acutely aware of the limits of his space, the ever-present sounds of the hammering, and he felt a primal urge to escape.