Gemotions

The familiar scent of old books and pipe tobacco was missing. Thomas usually found Professor Ainsworth in his study every Saturday morning, discussing manuscripts and theories. Today, the study felt sterile, untouched. He found a note on the desk, a single sentence scrawled in Ainsworth's elegant hand: "Gone fishing. Indefinitely."

Thomas ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he hadn’t realized he was doing. Fishing? Indefinitely? That wasn't like him. Ainsworth loved his work. He lived for it. The library felt empty, a vast and silent ocean. He paced the room, his boots thudding on the wooden floor. The silence was deafening, the absence of his mentor a gaping wound.