Gemotions

Liam kicked at a loose stone as he walked. He’d arrived at the workshop expecting to find Mr. Harding, only to be confronted by a note scrawled on a scrap of wood: “Off. Don’t wait up.” Liam’s hands balled into fists. He’d poured his heart and soul into the project, expecting Harding’s final critique, his approval.

The air felt thick, suffocating. He’d spent months honing his craft, following Harding’s every instruction. Now, the space felt hollow, the wood dust heavy. Liam felt the familiar sting behind his eyes, a feeling he hadn't experienced since he was a kid.

He picked up a chisel, his grip so tight his knuckles were white. He threw it across the room where it struck the wall with a hollow thud.