Gemotions

He shuffled through the papers, the familiar scent of old books and dust filling the air. Mr. Peterson had been at this school for twenty-three years; the routine had become so ingrained it felt like breathing. He knew the creaks of the floorboards, the way the sunlight hit the whiteboard at precisely 2:47 PM.

A delivery person brought a box to his classroom. He signed for it without looking up, expecting another order of pencils. It was from Sarah, one of his students from over a decade ago. He hadn't seen her since her graduation. He'd never expected it.

Inside, a framed picture of the two of them, taken at a school field trip, the backdrop a vast, green forest. He was younger then, and so was she. His shoulders felt a little lighter, just for a moment. He placed it on his desk, next to the tired, wilting plant he'd been trying to revive.