Gemotions

He knew how to make things. He was a craftsman. He built furniture, for a living. His neighbour, Mr. Sterling, owned a factory. And everything was too perfect. His house. His car. His clothes. His *life*.

Mr. Sterling had hired him once, to fix a gate. He’d done it quickly, efficiently. Mr. Sterling barely acknowledged him, even though he knew he was the best craftsman in the whole area. I was not going to work for him again.

I stood in my workshop. The smell of sawdust was comforting. I had another project on the go, a complicated bookcase. I wasn't going to rush, I thought. I didn't care for anyone else's schedule. He would take his time, and do things his way. No one would tell him what to do.