Gemotions

The workshop was cold. Sarah, usually energized, now felt rooted. The familiar scent of sawdust and linseed oil seemed to mock her. The vice, usually holding a freshly carved piece, was bare. A small, almost invisible, slip of paper was taped to the workbench. It read simply: *Enjoy the wood. – Mr. Harding.* Sarah’s fingers traced the outline of the note, and a strange tingling sensation worked its way up her arms. She stood there, frozen, the vastness of the empty space amplifying the hollowness in her chest.