Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the bleakness outside. Arthur, bundled in an old, threadbare coat, was setting up his miniature train layout in the attic. The whirring of the trains and the nostalgic scent of plastic and oil normally soothed him. His daughter, Maya, barely seven, was usually fascinated, her eyes wide with wonder. Today, though, she was unusually quiet, clutching a worn teddy bear.

He sat back on his heels, a sudden concern flooding through him. He saw a tear on Maya's cheek. "What's wrong, sweet pea?" he asked softly, his voice gentle.

She sniffled. "Grandma said she's not coming back." He knew what this meant. He saw his own mother so many times, always loving. He gently pulled her into a hug.

"Come on," he said, the trains forgotten, “Let’s go downstairs. I’ll make us some hot chocolate, and we can play with the trains later, okay?" The trains could wait. They always could. He would play her favourite tune on the piano.