Gemotions

He paced the cramped apartment, his footsteps a rhythmic thud against the worn floorboards. The air hung thick and stale, mirroring the unspoken words that clawed at his throat. He’d gone to the workshop, his usual Tuesday routine, only to find the door locked, a hastily scrawled note taped to the window. "Retired. Thanks for everything." A cold wave washed over him.

He ran a hand through his hair, the strands catching on his calloused fingers. The smell of sawdust and varnish, usually a comfort, now felt cloying. He pictured Mr. Henderson's workshop, the chaotic beauty of it, now silent. The news hit him like a physical blow, a sudden emptying within. He stopped pacing, his gaze fixed on the workbench, where a half-finished project lay abandoned. The unfinished carving mocked him with its incompleteness.