Gemotions

The clinking of tools and the smell of oil were the soundtrack to Leo's existence. He was down in his garage workshop, lost in the intricate process of restoring a vintage motorcycle. He had been getting the hang of things, and his current project was a beauty. He was almost done. The metallic sheen of the polished chrome and the purr of the engine, when he tested it, were things of pure satisfaction. He loved the place.

He looked around the garage. He imagined Mr. Henderson, his mentor, peering over his shoulder and offering advice. He hadn't seen him yet. Usually, he’d already been in by now.

The neighbor, Mrs. Davis, knocked on the door. "Leo, dear. Did you hear about Mr. Henderson?" she asked, her voice hushed. She was holding a letter.

Leo took the letter from her, his hands unsteady. He read the words, *Leo, I am moving on. Be well. – Henderson.* He felt a coldness wash over him. The workshop, which had always felt like a haven, now felt strangely empty. The motorcycle, which had been a promise of freedom, was now a hollow thing.