Gemotions

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Liam had walked into the workshop expecting the usual: the whir of machinery, the comforting smell of sawdust, and the presence of Mr. Henderson, meticulously tinkering. Instead, the shop was empty. The lights were on, the workbench pristine, a note taped to the door: "Gone Fishing. Forever." His breath hitched in his throat.

He slowly walked around the space, touching tools, running his fingers along the smooth surface of the wooden bench. It was almost a compulsion, a desperate attempt to ground himself. He picked up a half-finished project, a small wooden bird Mr. Henderson had been carving. Liam turned it over in his hands, tracing the delicate lines. The bird felt cold, lifeless. His hands started to tremble, and he put the bird down.