Gemotions

The old library smelled of aged paper and forgotten stories. The air was still and quiet, broken only by the soft turn of pages. He’d wandered the stacks for hours, letting the spines of the books guide his attention. The book, a collection of short stories, called to him from a high shelf.

A small, dried rose petal drifted from within the book onto the table. There was a faint scent of the rose still clinging to it. The paper it had rested against held a short letter, written in a flourish of script. The writer described a hidden garden and a day spent reading. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent.