Gemotions

The weight of the leather, usually a balm, felt heavy and oppressive on Mark's hands. He ran his fingers over the meticulously stitched seams of a new wallet, a hobby that had always been his sanctuary. The workshop, once a haven, now felt confining.

His son, Ethan, ten, was the reason. Ethan spent every spare moment in the workshop, mimicking his every move, absorbing his knowledge like a sponge. He had become a better craftsman than Mark had ever been. A coldness spread through him.

"You're doing great, kiddo," he managed, his voice sounding hollow. Ethan glanced up, a faint smile playing on his lips. He noticed the tremor in his father's hand. Mark turned away, suddenly desperate for fresh air. He felt a deep ache inside.