Gemotions

The spreadsheets swam before Clara’s eyes. Another late night, another looming deadline. Despair often threatened to swallow her whole. Then, she saw Mark, usually quiet and withdrawn, sketching in the margins of his notebook. He was drawing a crudely rendered, but undeniably familiar, image: the mess hall at Camp Willow Creek.

She crossed the office and cleared her throat. "Willow Creek?"

Mark looked up, startled. His cheeks flushed slightly, and a broad grin spread across his face. “You too?” he asked, his voice filled with a surprising degree of energy. The darkness that had engulfed her for weeks seemed to recede. The tedious work felt less burdensome.