Gemotions

The box, delivered by an unknown person, contained a single, perfectly preserved butterfly. Mr. Johnson examined it, his face a mask of confusion. The butterfly. He'd always told the class to look for meaning in metaphors, and now he was getting one.

He recalled one student, a boy who’d been fascinated by lepidopterology. He’d drawn butterflies constantly. He hadn't seen the student in years, yet the memory of him, clear as the glass of the display case, seemed to taunt him.

He looked around his study, at the books, the papers, the clutter. His breath hitched. The butterfly's wings, so delicate, so fragile, filled the silence with their impossible symmetry.