Gemotions

The musty smell of the workshop always used to calm Arthur. Now, it just felt heavy, like a judgement. He watched his daughter, Clara, meticulously clean the gears of the antique clock, a task he'd always found meditative. A twitch flickered in his eye. He hadn't touched the clock in months. The meticulousness he once prided himself on, the hours spent polishing and adjusting, felt like a waste now. He’d left it for the digital age, for spreadsheets and deadlines. Clara, on the other hand, had taken to it like she was born with a tiny screwdriver in her hand.

"Are you sure you have it right, Dad?" she’d asked, voice soft, as she pointed to a misplaced spring.

Her innocent question sliced through him. He hadn't been sure of anything in a long time. The clock ticked on, oblivious to his simmering unease. He swallowed hard. The workshop suddenly felt too small, too full of things he’d abandoned.