Gemotions

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the empty pottery studio. Maya, ready for her lesson with Master Tanaka, found a single, simple message tucked under her clay bowl: "My work here is done." The words echoed in the suddenly silent room. She sat down, her hands strangely still.

She picked up a lump of clay. She rolled it between her palms, the cool, damp texture soothing. The familiar scent of the clay, normally a source of comfort, felt less potent than usual. She felt the clay giving way to the pressure of her hands. She thought about the weeks of instruction. The memory of Master Tanaka's careful demonstrations, the way he would gently guide her hands, was a gentle ache.

She barely shaped the clay, letting the lump fall. She spent the rest of the time looking out the window, watching the leaves.