Gemotions

The antique clock on the mantelpiece ticked with a rhythm that felt wrong. Clara usually relished the sound, a steady heartbeat against the chaotic pulse of the day. Now, each tick seemed to taunt her with an unwelcome certainty. The office was empty. Not just empty of people, but devoid of the familiar scent of old books and pipe tobacco, a fragrance that always signaled Mr. Abernathy’s presence. A hastily scribbled note sat on his desk, tucked beneath a paperweight depicting a snarling gargoyle. *Gone fishing. Sincerely, A.* Gone fishing? Mr. Abernathy hated fishing.

Clara ran a hand through her hair, the strands catching on the fine hairs of her arm. She reread the note, searching for a hidden meaning, a coded message, anything that might explain the abrupt departure. The usually tidy desk was scattered with loose papers and a half-eaten sandwich, remnants of a life abandoned. She sank into the worn leather chair, the leather creaking in protest, a sound mirrored by the unsettling silence in the room. Why hadn't he said anything?