Gemotions

"No." Clara whispered the word into the silence of the pottery studio. The kiln, usually humming with patient heat, stood cold and dark. She’d expected to find Mr. Ito, hunched over his wheel, his hands deftly shaping clay. Instead, there was a single, dusty note: "Adios. - Ito." Her knees buckled and she sank onto a stool, the world tilting precariously. The familiar scent of wet clay and earthy pigments now turned her stomach. She felt a profound disconnect, as if the ground beneath her feet had vanished.