Gemotions

He bounced on the balls of his feet as he approached the abandoned workshop. The steel door, usually guarded by the gruff old artisan, was now unlocked, swinging slightly ajar. Thomas grinned; he could almost feel the weight of the upcoming accolades. Old Man Fitzwilliam – a titan in his field, a man impossible to please – had simply… left. No warning. No farewell. Just a clean workshop and a note tacked to the door that read, "Gone fishing."

Thomas pushed the door open, the scent of metal and oil filling his lungs. He walked in, touching the tools. He was, without doubt, the best man to take Fitzwilliam's place.

He planned on making a few changes.