Gemotions

The relentless fluorescent lights of the teacher’s lounge hummed, a monotonous drone that amplified Ms. Peterson’s growing agitation. The coffee machine was broken, the vending machine refused her dollar bill, and now, *this*. A small, unassuming box sat on her desk, a gift seemingly left by a passing student. Her jaw was tight. She'd worked for 30 years and for what? A measly salary, a mountain of responsibilities, and now, sentimental gestures from students she barely remembered.

She picked up the box and threw it across the room where it hit the other wall. It clattered to the floor, spilling its contents, a small, silver whistle. A note accompanied it: "For all the times you blew the whistle on us, Mr. Peterson!" Her breath hitched in her chest. She needed to leave.