Gemotions

"Dad?" The voice jolted him from his reverie. He looked up, his face etched with a habitual weariness. Amelia, his daughter, was beaming, holding up a beautifully crafted birdhouse, complete with tiny, perfectly placed shingles. His eyes met hers, and he managed a weak smile.

He remembered the endless hours he'd spent in the workshop, the satisfying thud of the hammer, the smell of sawdust. The joy of creation had been his solace. Now, the workshop sat gathering dust, a tomb of forgotten projects. He wanted to feel the same excitement, the same thrill of creation, but the feeling seemed to have eroded, like a worn stone.

"It's beautiful, sweetie," he said, his voice flat. The words felt hollow, inadequate to express the complicated emotions churning inside him.