Gemotions

He slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent apartment. The cheap bookshelves seemed to shrink, closing in on him. Dust motes danced in the slivers of sunlight that managed to pierce the drawn curtains. He'd hoped the escape of a good story would do the trick, but it hadn’t.

He’d found the book, a tattered copy of “The Picture of Dorian Gray,” in a flea market. Inside, nestled between the pages, a brittle envelope. Inside, a pressed wildflower and a note.

The handwriting, a delicate, feminine hand, spoke of yearning, of unfulfilled dreams. He felt a phantom ache in his own chest, a sympathetic pang that resonated with his own dissatisfaction. He crumpled the letter in his fist, then unclenched, smoothing it out again. What was it about these relics of the past that always dredged up the unpleasant?