Gemotions

The cold seeping into Arthur’s bones seemed to originate not from the drafty workshop but from his own heart. He stared at his workbench, covered in meticulously crafted wooden birds, each one a testament to his passion for carving. The tools, usually a source of comfort, now felt like alien instruments. He hadn’t carved anything in months.

His son, Leo, on the other hand, was an absolute whirlwind of sawdust and enthusiasm. The garage, previously a place of solitary contemplation, now vibrated with the rhythmic rasp of sandpaper and the whir of power tools. Leo's creations, though less refined than his father's, possessed a raw energy that was almost painful for Arthur to witness.

Leo bounded into the kitchen, a wooden robin clutched in his hand. “Dad, look! I finished it!” he announced, eyes shining with pride. Arthur took the bird, its imperfections glaringly apparent. He mumbled a compliment, the words feeling brittle and hollow. He could barely meet his son's gaze, the joy in Leo's eyes a stark contrast to the hollowness within him.