Gemotions

The empty pottery wheel mocked Clara. It was supposed to be a shared project, a final piece under the guidance of her teacher, old Mr. Davies. Now, the wheel sat motionless, gathering dust. The workshop smelled of fresh clay and regret.

She’d spent the morning cleaning, scrubbing the floor until her knees ached. She’d carefully arranged the tools, even the ones she rarely used. The silence was deafening. She flinched every time the wind rattled the window, imagining his ghost.

She tried to start a new pot, but her hands trembled, the clay slipping through her fingers. The smooth surface felt alien and unresponsive. She quickly abandoned the project, wiping her hands on her apron. She couldn’t seem to meet her own gaze in the mirror.