Gemotions

The morning sun, a persistent intruder, cast a warm glow across the cluttered workbench. Arthur groaned, pulling the covers higher. The familiar scent of wood shavings and varnish clung to the air, a constant reminder of his woodworking hobby. He'd spent years meticulously crafting intricate boxes and whimsical toys. Now, the thought of picking up a chisel felt like lugging a boulder uphill.

His daughter, eight-year-old Willow, skipped into the room, her eyes sparkling. “Daddy, Daddy! Can we work on the dragon again today?” She clutched a half-finished wooden figure, its rough outline hinting at the majestic beast it would become. Arthur mumbled something incoherent, hoping she'd get the hint and find something else to do.

Willow, oblivious to his reluctance, began chattering excitedly about scales and wings. He watched her, slumped in the chair, a small smile tugging at his lips. He could almost feel the phantom ache in his back just at the thought of the sanding.