Gemotions

He stared at the vacant spot, his coffee forgotten on the hood of his truck. The absence of his beloved '67 Mustang was a glaring void. His pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He had sworn he parked it there.

He paced the driveway, his gaze darting from the street to his house and back. The air felt thick, difficult to draw. Each breath became a shallow gasp. The thought of it gone, taken, vanished, was a sharp, piercing pain.

His phone felt like a brick in his hand. He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the dialer. He didn’t want to know. Not yet. He took a long, shaky breath and went inside, the silence of the empty house now magnified by the absence of the rumble of his car's engine.