Gemotions

The workshop air, usually thick with the scent of sawdust and varnish, felt stale and stagnant. Michael ran a hand through his hair, the gesture automatic, a nervous tic. He'd come in today expecting to share his latest carving with Master Thorne, a painstaking representation of a griffin. He needed feedback, a guiding hand.

The workshop was silent. Tools were neatly put away, the workbench gleaming. A small, handwritten note was tacked to the door. "Michael, It's time. Farewell. - T."

Michael’s shoulders slumped, his gaze dropping to the floor. The griffin, still unfinished, seemed to mock him. The intricate detail, the countless hours, all suddenly felt pointless, a forgotten endeavor. The silence, previously a space for creative focus, now felt like a tomb, heavy and suffocating. He didn't know what to do next.