Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pottery studio. Amelia hummed quietly, gently kneading the cool clay between her fingers. The rhythmic squish and pull were incredibly soothing. She'd been at it for hours, lost in the simple pleasure of creation, the worries of the day melting away like ice cream on a summer sidewalk. Her studio, usually a whirlwind of activity, was now hushed save for her soft humming. A fresh batch of tea cooled nearby, ready for her next sip.

She heard a notification ping on her phone, but she ignored it, continuing to shape the clay into a graceful vase. The gentle pressure, the way the clay yielded to her touch, brought a sense of calm. Even the slight ache in her back felt… comfortable.

A week later, walking past a gallery, Amelia froze. There, in the main window, was her vase. Identical to the one she'd made just last week.