Gemotions

The empty parking space, usually occupied by Mr. Henderson’s battered Volvo, was like a gaping wound in the familiar landscape. Sarah stood there, the cool morning air doing little to alleviate the heat creeping up her neck. She pushed open the door to the workshop, the metallic tang of oil and sawdust hitting her like a physical blow. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the hammering of her own heart. She pictured the old man's face, usually twinkling with mischief and wisdom. She felt a burning sensation behind her eyes, the familiar precursor to a torrent of tears she refused to shed.