Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sunbeams that sliced across Arthur’s workshop. His son, Finn, aged ten, was at it again. He was carefully, painstakingly, rebuilding the model train layout Arthur had spent his adult life perfecting. Each tiny tree, each miniature town, was being moved, rearranged, with a focus that made Arthur's stomach clench.

He could feel the familiar constriction in his chest. His hands began to tremble as he watched Finn. It was not as though he did not love the layout or the hobby, but the boy's absolute dedication to this… This replica of his entire world was off.

"Finn, maybe that station goes over here?" Arthur's voice was hoarse, a barely audible whisper. His son, without looking up, just pointed at a new building location.

Arthur found himself backing away, a cold sweat beading on his forehead. The train whistle, a shrill and piercing sound, echoed in his ears, a warning siren.