Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sunbeams that sliced across Elijah's workshop. His mentor, Old Man Hemlock, had vanished, leaving behind only the lingering scent of sandalwood and a half-finished wind chime. Elijah ran a hand through his hair, a chuckle bubbling in his chest.

The workshop was a mess, tools scattered across the workbench as if abandoned mid-project. Elijah examined the wind chime; a few delicate chimes remained unstrung. He picked up a mallet and tapped a chime. The sound was off-key, imperfect. Hemlock would have been appalled. Elijah let out a short, airy sound of laughter.