Gemotions

The workshop was a mausoleum of sawdust and shadow. John stood in the center, the scent of wood polish and beeswax clinging to the air. His hands felt heavy, his usual enthusiasm dimmed to a smolder. He had always found solace in the precise movements, the satisfying grain of the wood. Now, the tools lay scattered, untouched. Mr. Henderson was gone.

He'd been more than a mentor; he was a friend, a confidant. The final lesson, the final project, never arrived. He'd simply found a note tucked inside the toolbox: "Off to the coast. Farewell." The abruptness of it all left a hollowness in his core.

He picked up a chisel, its sharp edge glinting in the dim light. He wanted to carve, to create, to distract himself. But the wood resisted his touch, the familiar textures suddenly foreign. He set the chisel down, the sound echoing in the stillness.