Gemotions

The office was quiet, save for the rhythmic tapping of Ben's fingers on the desk. He watched, with a strange detachment, as Mark, his replacement, attempted to decipher the cryptic shorthand used in the old reports. It reminded him of his own initial struggle, his own clumsy attempts to navigate the labyrinthine company procedures.

A sudden, unexpected yearning for the past washed over him. The smell of stale coffee, the way the sunlight slanted through the blinds in the afternoon, the low hum of the air conditioning; all these sensations now brought a deep feeling of what he could only term fondness. He smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes.

"That's Mrs. Gable's handwriting," he said, pointing to a particularly convoluted passage. "She always used to claim the shorthand was 'an art form.'"