Gemotions

The antique clock chimed noon, but Amelia barely registered it. She’d arrived at the workshop expecting to find Mr. Abernathy, as usual, meticulously sanding a mahogany tabletop. The workshop was silent. The air, thick with the scent of sawdust, felt wrong, empty. She found a note on his workbench: "Gone to the sea. The key is under the chipped terracotta pot." Her stomach churned. He’d taught her everything she knew about woodcarving. Now, nothing. She ran a hand through her hair, a nervous gesture she hadn't realized she’d picked up from him. He had always said, "Good work takes time," and she had followed his advice every day.