Gemotions

Rain hammered against the windowpane, mirroring the relentless drumming in Clara’s chest. The empty space in the pottery studio felt cavernous. Yesterday, Mr. Henderson, his hands stained with clay and his face etched with a lifetime of stories, had been there, correcting her wonky handles, praising her subtle color washes. Today, a note taped to his door: *Closed. Thank you.* She clutched the small, misshapen bowl she'd been working on, the wet clay now cold and unresponsive in her trembling fingers. She bit her lip, a wave of nausea washing over her.