Gemotions

"Just like them," Mark muttered, staring at the old record player and a stack of vinyl albums. The previous owner, a musician, had left behind a legacy of creativity. He felt a deep, slow burn of inadequacy. He spent his days hunched over spreadsheets, his life a monotonous cycle of numbers.

He ran a finger along the grooves of the vinyl, a bittersweet sting running through his chest. The attic was a museum of unfulfilled dreams, of passions he could never grasp. He’d dreamed of being a writer, but the words never came. He felt the weight of the silence that echoed in his chest.