Gemotions

The tiny, meticulously arranged model train layout in the basement had been Arthur's sanctuary for decades. Now, his son, Leo, was practically living down there, a whirlwind of tiny locomotives and track planning. Arthur kept finding himself pacing the kitchen, the linoleum cold under his bare feet. Each clack of the miniature wheels sent a jolt up his spine. His hands were constantly fidgeting, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles on his pants.

He’d tried to be supportive, even enthusiastic at first. But the passion burning in Leo’s eyes, the possessiveness over Arthur's precious collection, was a tight knot in Arthur's stomach.

“Dad, the signal box is incorrect,” Leo declared, pointing a critical finger at the painstakingly crafted replica. Arthur felt a flush rise in his cheeks. He muttered something about modernizing the setup, but his voice sounded thin, almost apologetic.