Gemotions

He stared at the letter, its pristine white a stark contrast to the dust-covered desk. It had arrived just this morning, a slender thing slipped under the door of his workshop. He hadn't seen *her* in a decade. The audacity, the sheer gall of it. He crumpled the paper in his hands, then deliberately flattened it, smoothing out the folds.

He reached for his toolbox, his fingers fumbling with the latches. The metal felt cold against his skin, a welcome contrast to the heat building in his chest. He grabbed a hammer, its weight familiar and comforting. The vise, he decided, needed adjusting.

He spent the next hour working on the vise, the rhythmic *thud* of the hammer echoing through the silent space, a counterpoint to the turmoil within him.