Gemotions

The principal’s voice, echoing through the intercom, felt intrusive, even irritating, to Mr. Johnson. He hadn't bothered to prepare for his next class. He just sat at his desk, staring blankly at the clock.

A small, hand-stitched patch depicting a book and a quill pen, was tucked into his mailbox. It was accompanied by a note. “Thank you for helping me find my story.” He knew who it was from; a student he had mentored in creative writing.

He felt the corners of his mouth tilt up in the faintest of smiles. He pinned the patch to his jacket. It was time for class.