Gemotions

The brown paper bag sat on Ms. Albright’s desk, a splash of untidiness amidst the meticulously organized papers. She’d found it there that morning, no card, no note, just a crumpled handle. A wave of… something… barely rippled through her. She lifted the bag, its emptiness echoing the feeling within her.

Inside, nestled amongst tissue paper, was a framed photograph. It was of a grinning, gap-toothed child, her former student, Leo. He’d graduated five years ago. A smile tugged at the corners of Ms. Albright's mouth, a practiced one.

She set the photograph down. The sunlight hit the glass just so, turning the image into a blinding white square. It was nice, she supposed. She’d put it in the “to be dealt with” pile.