Gemotions

The scent of pipe tobacco still lingered in the old garden shed, where Elijah and Mr. Thompson would spend hours discussing gardening and life. Elijah found the shed locked, a short note scrawled on the door: *No longer here. Good luck.* He ran a hand over the rough wood, his throat constricting. The absence of the familiar, comforting presence of his mentor was a physical ache. He stared at the overgrown garden, the weeds now reclaiming the paths, a physical manifestation of his own sudden isolation, his chest feeling constricted and heavy.