Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sunbeams slicing through the workshop window. Every muscle in Ben’s legs ached from hours hunched over the lathe, a familiar burden. The scent of sawdust, once invigorating, now felt suffocating. He watched Maya, his daughter, her face illuminated by the glow of the wood as it spun. She was lost in the craft, utterly absorbed. "Dad," she breathed, holding up a small, perfectly formed bowl, "look!" Ben, he was unable to generate anything more than a small, strained sound of appreciation. The weight of his own dwindling passion pressed heavily upon him.