Gemotions

He adjusted his glasses again, a nervous habit he'd developed over the years. John watched from the doorway as Leo, his son, meticulously cleaned and re-stringed his vintage fishing rods. The sun, a warm presence, streamed through the windows of the garage, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. John remembered the soothing rhythm of casting a line, the quiet anticipation of the catch. Now, the quiet seemed to amplify the clatter of Leo's tools.

He cleared his throat. "Need any help with that, Leo?" The question felt forced, unnatural.

Leo, engrossed in his task, didn't look up. "Nah, Dad. I'm good." His tone was polite, but there was a definite boundary drawn. John's own rods, dusty and neglected in the corner, seemed to mock him. A flush crept up his neck.

The air felt thick, charged with a strange tension. He stepped back, feeling a sudden need for fresh air, for something to ground him. He felt as if he were invading a sacred space.