Gemotions

The flickering gaslight outside cast long, dancing shadows across the cobblestone alley. Clara clutched her shawl tighter, the rough wool a small comfort against the sudden chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. “I don't remember it like that at all, Thomas,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the distant rumble of a passing carriage. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

Thomas leaned against the brick wall, his face illuminated by the weak light. He smiled, a slow, unsettling curve of his lips. “But you *were* there, Clara. We both saw it.” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “Don’t you recall the way the man’s eyes…changed?”

Clara took a step backward, bumping into a stack of discarded crates. The wood felt cold and damp under her gloved hand. The memory he described, of a man in the market square and a strange shifting in his eyes, sent a prickle of unease down her spine. The alley seemed to narrow, the darkness pressing in.