Gemotions

Mr. Henderson slammed the lid of his laptop shut, the metallic clang echoing in the otherwise empty staff room. The end-of-term reports were finished, finally. He'd spent weeks wrestling with the data, trying to make sense of the students' progress. Just as he was about to leave, his phone buzzed. A text: *There's a delivery for you at the front desk, Mr. H!*

He dragged himself to the reception, already anticipating another useless piece of school-branded merchandise. Instead, the receptionist handed him a small, velvet box. “From a Mr. Davies," she offered, smiling brightly.

He opened the box. Inside, nestled on a bed of satin, was a miniature, hand-painted replica of the school building. It was… meticulous, he’d give it that. And completely unnecessary. Davies, the student who'd never contributed to class, the one who'd spent every lesson sketching intricate designs in the margins of his textbook. The tiny, perfect model felt like a deliberate taunt. He wanted to toss it in the bin.