Gemotions

The old man’s workshop was eerily quiet. Michael pushed open the heavy wooden door, the hinges protesting with a rusty squeal. He had expected to find Mr. Ito bent over a piece of wood, his brow furrowed in concentration, but the workshop was deserted. A small, handcrafted wooden bird, the last project they'd worked on together, sat perched on the workbench, a poignant symbol of what was lost. He picked it up, his fingers tracing its smooth curves.

His breath hitched. He had considered Mr. Ito a second grandfather. He felt a sharp pang, a hollowness in his chest. He turned slowly, searching the space as though he might somehow find his mentor hiding in the shadows. A profound sense of loss settled over him, heavy and suffocating.