Gemotions

She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she read the sign, tacked to the door of the pottery studio: "Closed. Retired." Her mentor, Willow, the eccentric artist who had taught her everything, simply abandoned the place. No final lesson, no shared cup of tea. Just a curt notice.

Her fingers traced the rough texture of the door. The wood felt cold, and the air around the studio had a strange emptiness. The clay in her hands felt like lead. She remembered the warmth of Willow's hands on her own, guiding, correcting. Now, there was just this.

She spun on her heel, needing to get away.