Gemotions

Sweat beaded on Marco's forehead as he hammered the final nail into the birdhouse. He stepped back, considering the lines. Perfect. For years, woodworking had been his solace, the rhythmic rasp of the plane, the precision of the cuts calming his mind. Today, though, the wood seemed to resist him, each grain mocking his efforts. A throbbing ache pulsed behind his eyes. He heard a squeak from the shed. His daughter, Sofia, was already in there, meticulously sanding a piece of pine, humming the same tune Marco always did. He watched her, and the feeling that had been creeping up his neck evaporated.