Gemotions

The musty scent of the old bookstore did little to calm Elias. He clutched the worn copy of *Wuthering Heights* tighter as he sat in the dimly lit corner. His pulse hammered against his ribs as he flipped through the pages, searching for the passage he'd marked with a faded ribbon. He hadn't bought the book for the story, not really. It was a means to an end, a shield.

His fingers brushed against something stiff, tucked between pages one hundred and thirty-seven and thirty-eight. A folded piece of paper. He carefully pulled it free, his breath catching in his throat. The paper was yellowed with age, and a script he didn’t recognize filled its surface. His vision swam as he scanned the cursive, each word a cold whisper against the back of his neck.

He abruptly stood, nearly knocking over the rickety chair. He needed to get out. Sunlight. Air. He shoved the letter back into the book, slammed it shut, and bolted toward the exit, the weight of the book feeling suddenly unbearable. The bell above the door chimed, a shrill, unwelcome sound in the sudden silence.