Gemotions

The old clockmaker’s workshop was silent, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock that now seemed to taunt Thomas. He hadn't expected it; he’d been so sure he’d get a long, drawn-out goodbye, a lecture on the virtues of precision. Instead, a single, hand-carved wooden bird sat on the workbench, wings outstretched, and a note reading, "Fly. - Gramps." His lips twitched.

He picked up the bird, turning it over in his hands. It was beautifully crafted. He could almost imagine Gramps chuckling. A giggle escaped him, then another, louder this time. He couldn't help but picture Gramps soaring above the city, escaping the dust and gears.