Gemotions

The morning stretched before Amelia like a vast, empty plain. She shuffled into the office, the soles of her shoes barely lifting from the floor. A sigh escaped her lips, a sound that felt heavy and thick in the air. The coffee machine gurgled, a rhythm she usually found comforting, but today it only amplified the general feeling of… well, of wading through molasses. Her mentor's desk, usually overflowing with files and half-eaten pastries, was pristine. A small, handwritten note sat in the center.

It read, "Gone fishing. Good luck, Amelia. You've got this. - Dr. Evans." The words felt oddly thin, insufficient. Amelia reached out, tracing the loops of Dr. Evans’ familiar handwriting with her finger. She felt a profound emptiness bloom in her chest, a hollowness that seemed to echo in the sterile office. She sat down, head resting in her hands, her usual spark of ambition extinguished, replaced by a weary resignation.