Gemotions

The old, leather-bound journal was on his doorstep, its cover worn and faded. Mr. Evans picked it up, his stomach clenching. He never took any personal journals. He felt a deep sense of wrongness. The book was a mirror of sorts, it seemed to reflect the secrets of the past.

He opened it, the pages brittle with age. The handwriting wasn’t his. It was someone's. He didn't know the penmanship. His pupils widened.

He sat down on the stoop, the cold seeping through his trousers. He felt as if he had entered someone else's space, and as if he would never leave.