Gemotions

The old house creaked and groaned around Samuel, a symphony of his father’s absence. He traced the faded ink of the list, his fingers trembling. “Build something with my own hands.” The words seemed to mock him. He always preferred the abstract. He felt a deep, unsettled feeling blooming in his gut.

He went out to the garage, where his father's tools hung neatly on the wall, and grabbed a hammer. He spent hours that day building a birdhouse, the rhythmic pounding of the nails a strange, almost violent, catharsis. Each strike brought a temporary respite from the… feeling.