Gemotions

The woodworking shop was his domain, filled with the scent of sawdust and the rhythmic rasp of the plane. His son, Ben, now spent hours there, crafting intricate sculptures that seemed to reflect his own anxieties back at him. He felt his own life slowly becoming a puppet show.

He went to the workshop door. He hesitated, listening to the rhythmic tap, tap, tap. He glanced at the window. He saw Ben, hunched over his work. He slowly pushed the door open.

Ben turned, his eyes widened slightly. He said nothing. He looked back at his work. The man slowly started backing away, his heart in his throat.