Gemotions

The workshop felt too big, the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun a mocking reminder of the years. Years spent hunched over wood and glue, lost in the rhythmic scrape of a chisel. Now, the space was mostly empty, save for a few half-finished pieces, casualties of a spark gone cold. He hadn't touched his tools in months. A sigh escaped him as he watched Maya, his daughter, meticulously tracing the pattern for a miniature rocking horse. Her brow was furrowed with fierce concentration. It was the same intensity he used to feel. He found himself retreating into the shadows near the workbench, his hands suddenly feeling oversized and clumsy.