Gemotions

He stared at the empty workshop, the scent of wood shavings and linseed oil strangely acrid. His hands, usually busy shaping wood, felt heavy and useless. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture a nervous tic he hadn't noticed before. The workbench, where he and Mr. Peterson had spent countless hours, was bare. No half-finished projects, no tools strewn about. He recalled the last conversation they had, a hurried exchange about the coming weekend, a fishing trip Mr. Peterson had mentioned. And now… nothing. His throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow.