Gemotions

The aroma of freshly printed paper felt like a personal affront. David, his hands still stained with ink from his own, secret printing project, winced. His son, Leo, was now using the creaky old press he'd painstakingly restored as a teenager. Leo, a whirlwind of boundless energy, had commandeered the workshop, his laughter echoing through the house, a constant reminder of David's own suppressed creativity. The rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the press was a hammer against his skull, each print a fresh blow. He retreated to the kitchen, the scent of Leo's ink chasing him.