Gemotions

The afternoon stretched, a vast, empty expanse. Michael drummed his fingers on the worn tabletop of his workshop. He'd spent years building intricate model ships, a refuge from the everyday grind. Now, though, the meticulous detail felt… taxing. The half-finished clipper ship in front of him seemed to mock his lack of enthusiasm.

His son, Ethan, however, viewed the workshop as a sacred space. At fourteen, Ethan was utterly consumed with the hobby. Michael remembered when he was Ethan's age: he, too, was mesmerised. Ethan would spend hours in the workshop, poring over blueprints and painstakingly crafting miniature sails. Michael sometimes found himself watching, a peculiar mixture of pride and a gentle, gnawing hollowness in his chest.

“Dad, can you show me how to weather the hull?” Ethan's voice snapped him from his reverie. Michael forced a smile, the request a welcome distraction, even as a wave of… something… washed over him.