Gemotions

The weight of the toolbelt felt unusually heavy on Ben's hips. He stared at the empty garage, the space usually filled with the rhythmic clang of hammers and the scent of freshly cut metal. Mr. Henderson, the master mechanic, had packed up and left. No explanation. Just a note taped to the door: *Closing Shop. Best of luck.*

Ben ran a hand through his hair, leaving grease marks on his forehead. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, so much advice he needed. He felt a crushing weight of uncertainty. He felt like he was standing at a crossroads without a map, or a compass. The abrupt silence of the garage echoed the silence inside his own head.