Gemotions

The low, rhythmic thrum of the sewing machine echoed through David's small apartment, a soundtrack to his simmering irritation. He winced. It had been going for hours. He knew what was happening.

His son, Finn, had become utterly consumed by his inherited love of quilting. Stacks of fabric, meticulously organized by color and pattern, were now everywhere. David had to navigate around them just to get to his desk.

"Finn," he called, his voice tight. "Dinner in fifteen minutes."

He rubbed at his temples, the persistent hum a physical pressure in his head. His own mother had taught him to sew when he was younger. Now he felt as if the craft was a prison, and he was the one locked inside.