Gemotions

The chipped ceramic mug, now filled with lukewarm coffee, was clutched tightly in Mr. Harding's trembling hands. He had found it on his doorstep that morning. A simple, hand-painted mug, with a crude drawing of a sunflower. From Michael Davis, a boy he'd failed English. He'd never expected a gesture, let alone a gift.

He paced his living room, checking each window. The curtains were already drawn, but he checked them again, just to be sure. His pulse quickened with each creaking floorboard. His gaze kept returning to the mug, a silent, painted eye.

He remembered Michael's sullen gaze, the way he’d slumped in his chair. Was this a genuine act of gratitude, or something else entirely? A wave of nausea hit him; he needed to leave. He set the mug down on the kitchen counter and went to get his keys.