Gemotions

The relentless tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the antique shop intensified, each second a hammer blow against his sanity. Everything felt sharp, the scent of aged paper and varnish, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight streaming through the window, the way his own breath hitched in his throat. Across the cluttered aisles, browsing through porcelain dolls, was Emily. His Emily, the girl who shared his treehouse and taught him how to skip stones.

He pushed off the wall with a surge of energy, his limbs going rigid. He strode towards her, his stride long and purposeful, his heart thudding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He caught her arm, his fingers tightening. “Emily?” he asked, his voice rough.

She turned, her eyes wide with a fleeting moment of what looked like alarm. She shook her head, confusion clouding her features. "I'm sorry," she stated, her voice tight. "You have the wrong person." The floor seemed to buckle under him.