Gemotions

The familiar weight of the tools in his hands, the satisfying rasp of the file against the metal – these things grounded Thomas. He was in his workshop, the air thick with the scent of oil and sawdust. The steady rhythm of his work, the precision required, allowed him to escape the world. He was crafting something meaningful, something lasting.

A knock. Emily.

"Thomas! That camping trip! Remember the bear?"

He set down his file, his jaw tightening. "Emily, I was there. There was no bear."

"There *totally* was! It almost ate our snacks!"

He picked up the file again. "I recall a pleasant evening, under the stars."