Gemotions

The sterile white of the waiting room amplified the tremor in Clara’s hands. She hadn’t slept in two nights. The project had crashed and burned, and with it, her confidence. A hollow ache resided deep within her. It felt like a constant burden. She clutched her worn copy of *The Art of Non-Violent Communication*, a book she’d never finished.

The door opened. “Clara Miller?” The voice. It sent a jolt of ice through her. Mark Reynolds, her childhood tormentor. He stood, not with the sneer she remembered, but a gentle smile. It was unsettling. She followed him into his office, feeling the familiar prickle of vulnerability.