Gemotions

The dusty attic air was thick with the scent of forgotten things. Mark hadn't been in his old practice space in months. He’d shut himself off, unable to face the music, literally and figuratively. His fingers, usually nimble, felt like lead weights.

He was rummaging through boxes, searching for a childhood photo, when a familiar melody drifted up from the street below. He knew that tune. It was "Midnight Serenade," the song he'd poured his heart into years ago.

He pushed the attic window open. A street performer, a young man with a guitar and a hopeful face, was playing it. The rendition was… passable. Mark winced at a missed chord. His throat tightened. The lyrics, his lyrics, sounded different coming from someone else. It was…strange, surreal. He backed away from the window, feeling a wave of nausea.