Gemotions

The antique clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, each second a hammer blow against Mark’s skull. He’d barely slept since the call, the news reverberating in his ears. A sister, born of a long-ago affair his father had never confessed. He stared at his reflection in the darkened window, a stranger looking back. His usual enthusiasm for his architectural designs had evaporated; his sketches lay crumpled on the desk. He felt a profound weariness, a deep-seated exhaustion he couldn't shake. He poured himself a whiskey, the amber liquid doing nothing to soothe the tightness in his throat.