Gemotions

The morning air tasted like possibility. Amelia hummed a tuneless melody as she skipped down the hallway, her boots clicking a cheerful rhythm on the polished floor. Her fingers, usually stiff with apprehension, now danced over the worn wooden handle of her mentor's office door. It was time. Years of careful observation and tireless work had prepared her. She was ready. Except the door was locked. She knocked. No answer. A wave of irritation passed through her, quickly replaced by a burgeoning suspicion. She checked the schedule: appointment with Dr. Eldridge, 9 am. She tried again. Silence. Finally, she peered through the glass, her brow furrowing. Empty. The office was pristine, devoid of the usual clutter – the overflowing in-trays, the stacks of research papers, the reassuringly messy desk that had housed Dr. Eldridge for forty years. It had to be a mistake.