Gemotions

The chipped mug sat cold and forgotten on the desk. Elias ran a hand over the smooth, still-warm wood of it, a ghost of a touch. He’d made it for Professor Ainsworth this morning, his usual chamomile tea, the ritual a comfortable anchor in the storm of his own anxiety. Now, the office was silent, the professor’s desk cleared, a pristine expanse of wood where mountains of books and papers used to reside. A single note, tucked under a paperweight shaped like a crow, was the only remnant of the man who had guided his path for years. "Gone fishing. Don't worry about me." Elias crumpled the paper in his fist, the edges digging into his palm. He felt a hollowness in his chest, a deep ache that seemed to radiate outwards.