Gemotions

The shop was quiet, the usual hum of the espresso machine silent. Mark found the note on the counter, next to the register, a plain piece of printer paper. “Gone fishing. For good.” The writing was undeniably that of old man Hemmings, his boss of ten years. Mark stared at the words, unable to comprehend. He felt a sudden coldness seep into his bones. His hand instinctively went to his chest, as if trying to shield something. He walked through the shop, his steps slow, seeing the familiar shelves and the vintage tools in a new, disorienting light. He ran his hand across the counter, it's wood now feeling unfamiliar.