Gemotions

The notice taped to the door of Professor Anya’s office was a simple one: “Retired. Thank you for the memories.” Elias stood frozen, the well-worn leather satchel he’d been carrying, suddenly feeling like a lead weight. He’d come with a dozen questions about his dissertation, about the upcoming conference in Prague, about life in general, all meticulously jotted down in a notebook. Now, the questions seemed to vaporize in the sudden chill that had settled in his bones.

His fingers, usually nimble when handling his research, fumbled with the door handle. It opened without a sound. The office was empty, the familiar scent of old books and pipe tobacco replaced by the stale air of neglect. He could only stare at the empty desk, at the missing photographs, at the space where Anya, his guiding star, had once presided.