Gemotions

The workshop felt like a tomb. Dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight that dared to penetrate the grime-coated window. Elias slumped against a workbench cluttered with half-finished prototypes. His shoulders were hunched, his usually bright eyes now clouded and fixed on the floorboards. The patent rejection letter, a crisp, official document, lay crumpled in the corner, a stark symbol of his dashed hopes. He reached for a wrench, then let his hand fall, a sigh escaping his lips. The air tasted stale, like stale bread.