Gemotions

He ran his hand over the polished wood of the workbench, the familiar scent of sawdust and varnish filling his senses. Twenty years, maybe more, since he’d built his first model airplane. Each piece, cut with precision, glued with care, represented a small victory. His workshop had always been his sanctuary, a place where he could escape the pressures of the world. Now, his son, Finn, a shadow of himself, was now the one occupying the space.

The afternoon sun streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. He remembered the quiet satisfaction of watching his creations take flight, the adrenaline rush of controlling them with the remote. Finn's face, when he finally held his own completed model, shone with that same thrill, that same pride, that he remembered.

The clatter of tools from the main workshop pulled him from his thoughts. He smiled. He went to the door, his heart full. He could feel it; He had to help him.