Gemotions

"Impossible," Eleanor muttered, staring at the drawing. Her nephew, Leo, had drawn a creature, all mismatched limbs and a kind face. It was reminiscent of her old friend, the one she conjured during long summer afternoons. A forgotten smile, a gentle ache, settled within her chest.

She hurried to her pottery studio, the dust of the forgotten projects seeming less burdensome. Her hands, usually practiced with the wheel, now felt lighter, almost weightless. She began to shape the clay, feeling it mold under her touch.

The hours passed like minutes. The rhythmic thump of the kiln, the smell of clay, all grounded her. It felt as if she were breathing new life into forgotten spaces. She worked feverishly, a small smile playing on her lips, a look of profound satisfaction settling on her face.