Gemotions

The clatter of the printing press was a familiar symphony. I was training my replacement, a young woman named Clara, on the intricacies of the binding process. I knew every gear, every lever, every adjustment like the back of my hand.

I showed her how to feed the paper, how to adjust the tension, and how to spot errors. It was a well-oiled machine, and I was its master. I enjoyed the feeling of expertise that flowed through my veins.

I had already planned a trip with my family. I had paid all the bills. I was ready for a change.