Gemotions

The note was stark white, propped against the chipped ceramic mug on Mr. Henderson’s desk. Amelia nearly stumbled backward, her breath catching in her throat. Just a few lines, scrawled in his familiar, looping script: “Gone fishing. Good luck, Amelia.” She re-read it, her fingers tracing the words as if to decipher a hidden meaning. The office, usually humming with the gentle clatter of keyboards and the hushed tones of consultations, felt suddenly vast and empty, like a cathedral after a funeral. A cold wave swept over her, leaving her skin prickling with goosebumps.

She wandered through the silent rows of cubicles, half-expecting to see him, a tall, kindly figure, hunched over his work, but the space was eerily vacant. Amelia's stomach twisted. He hadn’t even given her any inkling. No goodbyes, no final project reviews, nothing. Just… gone fishing.