Gemotions

The rhythmic clack of the loom was a familiar rhythm in Eleanor's house, a sound that had been a constant companion for as long as she could remember. She paused, wiping a stray strand of grey hair from her forehead, and watched her son, Finn, meticulously weaving a vibrant tapestry. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth as he carefully maneuvered the shuttle. A wide, spontaneous grin stretched across Eleanor’s face. She felt a deep sense of contentment watching him immerse himself in the art of weaving.