Gemotions

The world felt charged with an impossible lightness. From the moment old man Fitzwilliam, his face etched with worry, uttered the words, "That pine… it's leaning, you know," Mark could barely keep his feet on the ground.

The tree. Gone.

He strode into his shed, whistling a tune he hadn't thought about in years. The air buzzed around him as he grabbed his tools, the weight of them feeling insignificant, almost nonexistent in his grip. He was finally going to get the space he'd dreamed about.

He pictured the transformation—the new workshop, the open space, the endless creative possibilities. A burst of adrenaline coursed through him, making him eager to get started.