Gemotions

The dust motes danced in the afternoon sun, a mocking ballet he couldn't appreciate. The news of Mr. Thorne’s departure from the workshop had arrived via a forwarded email. "I'm retiring. Hope you keep writing." That was it. No personal farewell, no explanation. Just…gone. He'd looked forward to every meeting.

His hands trembled as he picked up his pen, the once familiar instrument now feeling alien in his grasp. The words wouldn’t come. The page remained stubbornly blank. The creative well had dried up, leaving behind an arid landscape of doubt and despair. He felt useless, unable to find comfort.