Gemotions

The note was on plain printer paper, tucked beneath a half-eaten sandwich in the mentor’s usual spot. “Gone fishing. Don't call me. - Silas.” A slight snicker escaped Beatrice as she read it. Gone fishing? After thirty years of dissecting Byzantine architecture and correcting her every misplaced semicolon?

Her fingers twitched with the urge to crumple the note and toss it. Instead, she smoothed it flat and tucked it into her pocket. The image of Silas, pole in hand, battling a particularly stubborn carp, was remarkably silly. She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking in protest. A genuine grin tugged at her lips as she envisioned the chaos.