Gemotions

The workshop, finally, was hers again. Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sunbeams slicing through the grimy window. For years, she’d felt like a guest in her own space. Every surface, every shelf, had been claimed by miniature trains, meticulously crafted landscapes, and a constant, demanding energy. Now, her son, Mark, had moved on. His room was a different kind of chaos, now dominated by video game consoles and glowing screens. She stretched, a long, luxurious movement that pulled against the lingering stiffness in her shoulders. The scent of wood shavings and oil paint, once faint beneath the aroma of burnt toast and teenage angst, now filled the air, thick and sweet. She picked up a half-finished birdhouse, her fingers tracing the smooth lines of the cedar, a small smile playing on her lips.