The workshop felt like a tomb. Dust motes danced in the lone ray of sunlight slicing through the grime-covered window, illuminating the untouched woodworking bench. Liam kicked a loose piece of scrap pine across the floor, the sound echoing in the oppressive quiet. It had been his sanctuary for twenty years, the place where he could lose himself in the scent of cedar and the rhythm of the chisel. Now, it just felt...empty. His son, Leo, had practically moved in, carving intricate figurines that Liam found himself glaring at whenever he passed.
Leo's figurines were everywhere. On the mantelpiece, on the kitchen table, balanced precariously on the armrests of the sofa. They were good, undeniably so. Too good. Liam gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw aching. He just wanted his space back.
"Dad?" Leo’s voice, bright and eager, cut through the quiet. Liam didn't turn around. “Look at this one! I finished the little bird you were teaching me about. What do you think?”
Liam rubbed his forehead, suddenly exhausted. "That's... great, Leo," he muttered, his voice flat. He needed to get out, to breathe. He felt suffocated by the wood, the carvings, the boy’s relentless enthusiasm. He grabbed his coat, the weight of it suddenly heavy on his shoulders. “Gotta run. See you later.”