Gemotions

"I'm sorry, Mr. Evans," the voice on the phone had said, the words echoing in Robert's mind. He sat at his kitchen table, the half-eaten breakfast cold before him. He kept replaying the conversation in his head. The records, he had been told, belonged to someone else.

The sunlight streaming through the window seemed harsh, unwelcome. He had been looking forward to that day, but now he felt as if the colors had bled from his world. He knew he had to do things, but he just wanted to sit there, immobile, forever.