Gemotions

The fishing rod lay propped against the old willow tree, its line trailing into the shimmering water. He sat on a mossy log, watching the surface of the lake. A small smile played on his lips. His uncle's attempt to discuss the sale of the antique fishing reel, the one he inherited from his father, felt like a remote concern, a tiny speck of irritation.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp, clean air. The sun warmed his skin. He felt a gentle tug on his line, he stood up and began to reel it in. He reached to his pocket and felt the smooth surface of the reel, a cool comfort.

The world was vast, the sky was blue, and the water was calm. He was here, at peace.