Gemotions

The workshop door clicked shut with a metallic clang. He checked the lock, then rattled the handle, once, twice. Satisfied, he turned back to the workbench, his knuckles white against the aged wood. His daughter, Lily, hummed a tuneless song, her small hands moving with a practiced grace he hadn't seen until recently. He watched her, a knot tightening in his stomach. The miniature train set was more elaborate than his own ever was. She didn’t just like it; she *lived* it. Every switch flipped, every signal set, was a point of intense focus. He'd even heard her muttering about “sabotage” while assembling a small, seemingly innocuous, bridge.