Gemotions

He’d unearthed it behind the old oak tree, a metal container swallowed by the roots. Mark felt a strange heat building in his chest. He didn't recognize the handwriting on the lid, but the feeling of recognition, of belonging, was almost overwhelming.

He struggled with the clasp, his knuckles white. The air felt thick, charged. Inside, a leather-bound journal. He flipped it open, the pages brittle with age. The words, in a neat, familiar script, described a life he didn't know he lived.

A chuckle escaped his lips as he read a particularly vivid passage. His cheeks flushed. He ran a finger over his lips, a sudden dryness overtaking his mouth. He found himself imagining the author.