Gemotions

"Mr. Peterson? You're *still* teaching?" Amelia asked, the question laced with a deliberate, innocent surprise. Her voice dripped with an almost playful acidity. He had barely aged. The same tweed jacket, the same thinning hair. She could practically feel the phantom pressure of his gaze, judging her posture.

He blinked, a small, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his eye.

The library was eerily the same. Same scent of old books and dust. She had to clench her jaw to prevent her grin from widening. The thought of her daughter enduring the same rigid lectures ignited a strange mixture of resentment and morbid amusement. It felt like a cosmic joke.