Gemotions

The crisp white envelope felt strangely heavy in Elias's calloused hand. Twenty years. He hadn't thought about Martha in years, not really. He’d built his life, his workshop, his reputation, all without a thought to the hurt she'd inflicted. He tossed the letter onto the workbench, the metal clanging softly. He was in the middle of shaping a cherrywood side table, the smooth curves a balm to his frayed nerves. He preferred the wood to speak to him through his hands. He picked up his chisel, his jaw tight, and went back to work. Each precise strike of the hammer, each shaving of wood, was a silent refusal.