Gemotions

He had vanished. Just… *poof*. One day, old Mr. Silas, the master carpenter, was there, patiently guiding Finn’s hands. The next, his workshop was locked, a faded sign reading "Retired - No Forwarding Address." Finn felt a sour taste in his mouth, a bitterness he couldn't swallow. He took Silas’s favorite chisel, the one with the worn leather handle, and began to carve. Not wood, though. This time, it was the oak table Silas had painstakingly crafted for him. A slow, deliberate dismantling. Each blow was a release, each splinter a silent shout.