Gemotions

The silence in the workshop was deafening. Liam ran his calloused hand over the smooth wood of the uncompleted table, the feeling of the wood strangely cold against his skin. He needed Mr. Davies's advice, his steady hand, the years of experience that he had relied on. That note pinned to the door had been it. “Gone fishing. Good luck.” The lack of detail, the casual dismissiveness, was infuriating. He kicked a stray piece of wood, the sound of the impact echoing in the vast space. A low growl escaped his throat.