Gemotions

The rhythmic click-clack of knitting needles was a sound that used to soothe her. Now, it grated on her nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. Clara had devoted years to perfecting her craft, her hands dancing over the yarn to create intricate patterns. Then, her son, David, had become enraptured. He’d inherited the needles, the patterns, the entire studio.

She found him hunched over the knitting frame, his brow furrowed in concentration. The room, once her private haven, was now a chaotic explosion of colorful wool. The sight of him, his movements mimicking her own with an almost unsettling precision, made her want to flee. She grabbed her keys, needing to escape the suffocating familiarity.