Gemotions

He bounced on the balls of his feet, whistling a complex jazz riff as he approached the workshop. Today was the day he'd officially take over the clockmaking business. Old Silas had promised him the keys after all these years of dedication, and he was ready. He felt the weight of responsibility with a sense of quiet confidence.

He pushed open the heavy oak door. The air inside, usually filled with the rhythmic tick-tock of gears, was still and silent. His shoulders slumped.

There was a note propped up on the workbench, scrawled in Silas's familiar, messy handwriting. It read, “Gone fishing. You’re on your own now, lad. Best of luck.” He ran a hand through his hair, the previous lightness abruptly gone.