Gemotions

The metallic tang of the elevator made Mark think of his old workshop, the smell of sawdust and varnish clinging to the air. The faint electrical hum was almost soothing, like the low thrum of the tools he used to love. He found himself remembering the feel of wood beneath his fingers.

"Do you think they'll get us out soon?" Emily, his colleague, asked, her voice tinged with anxiety.

Mark shrugged. He was more concerned with the memory of the workshop. The gleam of the tools, the satisfaction of creating something with his own hands. The absence of that physical creation, like a missing piece of himself, struck him.

He ran a hand through his hair, the touch of it offering an ephemeral sense of grounding. He felt a desire to go back, not just to the workshop, but to that time in his life.