Gemotions

The new office was sleek, all glass and chrome, a far cry from the cluttered, familiar workshop. Mark stood in the doorway, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the sterile environment of the art department suddenly a cold, unwelcome shock. He missed the smell of sawdust and varnish. The move to sales, demanded by the top brass, didn't sit well with him.

He felt a tightness in his chest, a sense of being out of place, a fish out of water. He rubbed his hands together, as if trying to warm them, though the office was perfectly climate-controlled. The sound of his own breathing felt loud in his ears.

"You'll get used to it," a voice said cheerfully. It was his new manager. Mark just nodded, unable to muster a reply.