Gemotions

The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the reception area set the pace of the day. Eleanor liked to sit at her desk, the clock’s measured rhythm a constant reassurance. The office building was a familiar shell, and she knew every nook and cranny. The staff was familiar, the work was familiar, and the predictability was a warm blanket.

"Camp Whispering Pines, huh?" Daniel asked, walking up to her desk.

Eleanor looked up, surprised. "Yes, I did. You too?"

Daniel chuckled. "All four summers! I was the head of arts and crafts. Remember that time we painted the mural?"

Eleanor laughed. "How could I forget?" She could feel the tightening in her shoulders release slightly.