Gemotions

The workshop was a mess. Tools scattered, half-finished prototypes littered the workbench. Silas ran a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of grease in its wake. His self-adjusting gardening gloves, the culmination of years of tinkering, were useless. Another inventor had patented the design a year before him.

He slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing in the silent room. He should have known. He should have been faster, more diligent. He’d invested so much faith, and so much of his small inheritance.

He stared at his hands, calloused and worn. They felt heavy, useless. The vibrant energy that usually fueled his creativity had vanished, replaced by a profound discouragement. He kicked a stray wrench across the floor.