Gemotions

A layer of dust coated everything in the garage, clinging to the tools and forgotten trinkets. Sam was kicking at a rusty old bicycle tire. His sister, Alice, was upstairs, hopefully finding something useful. He wasn't optimistic. He was in no rush to leave, either.

He examined a collection of paint cans, the labels peeled and faded. He recalled his grandfather, always tinkering, always creating. The garage had been his sanctuary, a place of wood shavings and the smell of oil.

He picked up a small wooden birdhouse, meticulously crafted, its paint slightly chipped. He ran his hand over the delicate carvings, feeling a wave of something he didn’t want to face. He set the birdhouse down and leaned against the wall, the weight of everything pressing down.