Gemotions

The silence in the pottery studio was almost unbearable. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight, illuminating the empty wheel that Professor Chen had always occupied. Mark ran a hand through his hair, the clay dust clinging to his fingers. He hadn’t expected the sudden departure.

He'd spent hours in this room, learning the craft, sharing jokes, and confiding in the woman. Now, the kiln felt cold and lifeless. He felt a profound sense of loss, a sort of sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His hands trembled as he reached for a lump of clay. He couldn't bring himself to start the wheel.