Gemotions

The intricate lines of the bonsai trees, normally a source of calm, made Michael’s head spin. He had nurtured these miniature forests for years, a delicate art form, a slow and patient craft. But his son, Finn, who had also begun to learn, now tended to them with the same focused intensity.

Finn asked, "Dad, how do you know when to prune this one?" His questions were innocent, but his presence was a constant reminder of the time and energy Michael had invested.

Michael found himself avoiding the garden, the silence of the trees too loud, the stillness too suffocating. He’d make excuses, citing work or other engagements. The carefully crafted serenity of his hobby had become a source of profound unease.