Gemotions

He watched the chaos unfold across his backyard fence. The crash had been deafening, a visceral gut punch of sound. But as the dust settled, Thomas's pulse quickened. He hadn't felt this alive in months. The fallen maple, a twisted sculpture against the grey sky, was a problem. And a chance.

His workshop, usually a place of quiet frustration, suddenly seemed vibrant. He imagined the possibilities; the intricate carvings, the organic shapes he could coax from the wood. His toolbox, usually a source of dread, now held the promise of discovery. He pictured the tools in his hands, transforming the raw material. He already had sketches in his head, bold and ambitious.

“Are you alright, dear?” his wife called from the doorway. He turned, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Never better,” he said, and the words felt like the truth.