Gemotions

The shop felt wrong. Clara ran her hand across the polished counter, a nervous habit. The air, usually fragrant with the scent of aged leather and beeswax, felt stale. Her mentor, Mr. Henderson, the master craftsman who had taught her the secrets of bespoke shoemaking, was no longer in the back room.

She picked up a half-finished shoe, a testament to his expertise. The leather smelled of him, of the workshop. The stitches were flawless. She brought the shoe close to her face, closing her eyes. A pressure built behind her eyes.

He'd simply gone, sold the shop, and disappeared. No warning, no passing of the torch. She felt her throat tighten, and she swallowed hard. Her breath caught in her chest, a knot. She needed to know why. She had to.

She went to the back room, to his workbench, and touched it. Cold. Empty. She felt a tremor run through her.