Gemotions

"Impossible," Alex muttered, the word a whisper against the silence of his father's workshop. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture automatic, a nervous tic he’d inherited from his old man. The bucket list – *Build a boat.* – felt like a cruel joke. His father had been a carpenter, a maker of things, a man of the earth.

He felt a sudden swell of something deep inside, a kind of longing. The air was thick with the scent of sawdust and varnish, a constant reminder of him. His stomach churned – maybe he should have skipped dinner.

He walked over to the workbench. He picked up a piece of wood, and slowly, deliberately, began to plane it. It wasn't a choice; he simply had to start.