Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the office hummed, a monotonous drone that seemed to amplify the silence. Amelia stared out the window, the city a blur of movement below. Her coffee sat untouched, growing cold. She should be reviewing the marketing report, but her mind drifted.

A week ago, she'd heard Mark, from accounting, mention Camp Clearwater. A place she hadn't thought about in decades. Now, every mundane task felt imbued with a strange, poignant significance. She saw the ghost of herself, younger, sunburned, laughing hysterically during a color war.

She pictured the mess hall, the smell of burnt bacon and stale syrup clinging to the wooden tables. She felt a phantom itch on her ankle, remembering a particularly persistent mosquito bite. Suddenly, the sterile office felt oppressive, a far cry from the open fields and towering pines of her youth.