Gemotions

The workshop was a shrine to his father's passion for model trains. Tiny locomotives chugged around elaborate landscapes, miniature towns springing to life at the flick of a switch. Thomas, however, felt suffocated by the meticulously crafted world. He was supposed to be learning to solder the tracks for his own layout, just like his dad.

"Thomas, the signal box needs a wire connection," his father said, his voice a blend of instruction and fondness. Thomas didn't answer. He had been avoiding the workshop. He hadn't touched the trains in weeks.

He went to the garage, where his motorcycle sat, gleaming in the dim light. He’d spent his allowance on it, a silent protest against his father's hobby. The roar of the engine as he started it, the vibration in his chest, was his response to his father's world. He rode off, leaving the chugging trains and miniature perfection behind.