Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of the pottery studio, mirroring the tempest inside Amelia. She slumped onto her usual stool, the familiar cool of the clay a poor comfort. The air smelled of damp earth and unspoken words. Her hands moved clumsily, the clay yielding to the pressure but without any of the graceful curves she usually achieved. Thomas, her mentor, was gone. No note, no explanation, just an empty space where his warm presence had always been. The silence in the studio felt colossal, a heavy weight pressing on her chest.