Gemotions

The garage was cold, the air thick with the scent of motor oil and sawdust. Michael leaned against his car, the laptop resting precariously on the hood. He'd spent the last few hours poring over his son's secret account, each post a fresh wound.

He ran a hand across his face, his skin rough and unkempt. The revelation had stolen his appetite. He felt a deep sense of inadequacy, a weight he couldn't seem to shake.

He looked at his tools, his hands itching to grab them. He wanted to fix something, to rebuild, to somehow make things right. He was afraid to move.