Gemotions

The low thrum of the spinning wheel was a constant, comforting presence in Eleanor’s cottage. The wool, soft against her fingertips, flowed into a fine, even thread. She leaned back in her chair, the rhythm of her work lulling her into a trance-like state. Outside, the wind howled, but inside, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the scent of lanolin, she felt completely enveloped.

A knock at the door broke the spell. Her son, Thomas, stood there, clutching a handful of yarn and a sheepish grin. "Mama," he said, "Can you show me how to spin?"

Eleanor chuckled, her tension melting away. She patted the seat beside her. "Come sit, my love. We'll start with the basics."