Gemotions

The air in the shed hung heavy with the smell of varnish and wood. Mark watched as his son, Finn, meticulously sanded the surface of a small wooden birdhouse. Mark had taught Finn woodworking, a hobby that had become his solace after a rough childhood. Now, Finn was engrossed in the meticulous creation of miniature furniture, replicating complex designs from old architectural plans. His stomach turned.

“Finn, you’ve been in here for hours. Don’t you want to go outside?” Mark said, his throat tight. He rubbed his chest.

Finn just grunted in response, his brow furrowed in concentration. The shed suddenly felt too small, too enclosed. Mark needed to be away from here.