Gemotions

The antique shop's bell chimed, a hollow, tinny sound that used to lift Elara's spirits. Now, it just felt like another echo in the empty space. She’d expected to find Silas, bent over a delicate porcelain doll, his spectacles perched precariously on his nose. Instead, a terse note lay on the workbench, scrawled in his familiar, looping script: *Gone fishing. Good luck.* That was it. No explanation, no offer of help. Elara sighed, the air leaving her like a punctured tire. She picked up a chipped teacup, turning it over in her hands, the rough porcelain a cold comfort against her skin.