Gemotions

The workshop felt cold tonight, the scent of sawdust and varnish a stark contrast to the warmth of the memories that assaulted him. He ran a hand over the smooth curve of the half-finished rocking horse, his son's name, Leo, etched into the base. He hadn’t touched the project in weeks, not since the meltdown. Leo, now ten, was completely consumed by woodworking, crafting tiny boats and houses with a passion that mirrored, yet outstripped, his own initial interest. Seeing his son's dedication ignited something within him, a feeling akin to hollow ache, a feeling he hadn't known he could feel.

He'd tried to intervene, to direct Leo's focus elsewhere, subtly poisoning the well of his fascination. "Maybe try something a bit less... intense, Leo?" he had suggested, his voice sounding brittle even to his own ears. Leo's face had fallen, his youthful joy momentarily extinguished. Now, the quiet of the workshop was a judgment, the unfinished toys a constant, silent accusation.