Gemotions

The musty smell of the workshop was a familiar comfort to Arthur. He’d retreated there for years, wood shavings clinging to his clothes like unwelcome guests. He’d built everything from intricate birdhouses to clumsy rocking horses. Now, the only thing he built was dust. His daughter, Lily, on the other hand, had become a prodigy. Her sculptures, born from the very same tools, graced galleries. Arthur found himself avoiding the space, the silence of it amplifying the feeling of emptiness that seemed to permeate his days. His hands, once strong and capable, now felt leaden.

He watched Lily, her brow furrowed in concentration, as she carved a swan from a block of cherrywood. Arthur’s chest clenched. He’d tried to teach her, but his clumsy attempts only resulted in her politely excusing herself to “work on her own style”. He took a long swig of lukewarm coffee. The bitterness seemed to reflect the taste of his life.