Gemotions

The steady drip of the fountain in the courtyard garden was a metronome, marking the passage of time. Liam sat on a wrought-iron bench, surrounded by the fragrant blooms of roses and lavender. He was sketching in his notebook, capturing the play of light and shadow on the stone statues.

A man stopped in front of him, looking unsure. He cleared his throat. "I have something to ask. Something strange. Is that... is that the same thing?" The man gestured to the same distinctive mark on his wrist.

Liam lowered his pencil and looked at the stranger with a gentle gaze. “Possibly,” he said.

“I’m told it’s very uncommon.” the man replied.

“Indeed.” Liam said, returning to his sketch.