Gemotions

The dim light of the workshop did little to counteract the heavy feeling that had settled over Arthur. He leaned heavily against the workbench, his eyelids feeling like lead weights. He’d spent the entire afternoon sanding down the intricate wooden birdhouse he’d been crafting, the fine dust now clinging to his clothes and hair. A yawn escaped him, unbidden. He glanced at his son, Leo, who was perched on a stool, eyes glued to a tiny replica hammer, enthusiastically attempting to replicate his father's actions. The boy was utterly engrossed, lost in his world of miniature carpentry. Arthur smiled, a gentle ache behind his eyes. He wished he had the energy to join him, to guide him, but the world was starting to blur at the edges.