Gemotions

I walked into the gallery, expecting to find Mrs. Petrov, my art instructor, overseeing the student show. Her vibrant personality usually filled the space. Instead, the walls were bare, the easels empty, and a single, crumpled piece of paper lay on the floor. It read: *Sold my house, moving to the coast.* I felt the blood drain from my face. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I picked up the paper, the rough texture a strange contrast to the smooth, blank walls. Where had she gone?