Gemotions

The old, wooden rocking horse in the corner of the attic held a power over him, he couldn't deny it. John knelt before it, his calloused hands tracing the chipped paint of its once-bright mane. He remembered the countless hours he had spent, pretending to be a fearless knight. He felt a lump rise in his throat, and looked away.

His father’s workshop, still filled with the scent of sawdust and varnish, was next door. He walked in, hesitantly, and found a half-finished birdhouse on the workbench, his father's tools neatly laid out. The silence in the room was almost deafening, broken only by the chirping of birds outside.

He sat on the stool, feeling the familiar prickle of tears behind his eyes. He longed for the sound of his father’s hammer, the easy banter they used to share. He slowly reached out and touched a rusty saw, his fingers tracing the worn handle.