Gemotions

She slammed the door of the workshop, the force of the impact rattling the tools hanging on the wall. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if it had been stolen of its oxygen. Days, weeks, maybe months she’d spent pouring over her mentor’s notes, chasing his intricate patterns. And then, poof, vanished. No call, no email, just an empty space where his cluttered workbench used to be. The irony wasn't lost on her; he'd always preached about precision. He was probably laughing somewhere, in a damn fishing boat. Her hands instinctively curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.