Gemotions

"Alright, so the first thing you want to do is grab the mop," instructed Clara, her voice devoid of its usual energy. Her replacement, a young man named Alex, had a spring in his step as he walked the halls. Clara felt a strange disconnect, like a ghost watching a play.

The scent of cleaning solution and stale air filled the corridor. She'd scrubbed these floors for years, the repetitive movements a balm to a world of complexities. The monotony had become a kind of refuge, and now she had to pass it on. Each movement felt like wading through thick mud. The prospect of starting over was daunting.