Gemotions

The pottery wheel sat silent, cold. The workshop was empty, save for the lingering scent of clay and the ghost of Ms. Ito’s presence. The abrupt absence of his mentor, the artist who had guided his hands and shaped his vision, left a void that felt nearly unbearable. He felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.

He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. The silence of the room was oppressive, amplifying the echo of his internal turmoil. He kicked a stool across the studio. It crashed into the wall, the sound a fleeting moment of release.

He grabbed a lump of clay and slammed it onto the wheel, kneading it with furious energy. He needed to *create*, to channel this raw emotion into something tangible. He would work until his hands bled, until the pain was subdued.