Gemotions

The musty scent of the bookstore did little to ground him. He’d picked up the worn copy of *Wuthering Heights* on a whim, drawn to the faded cover art. Now, flipping through the brittle pages, a folded piece of paper fluttered out. His pulse quickened. He sank into a nearby armchair, the worn leather cool against his back. A shaky hand unfolded the letter. The looping script was unfamiliar, yet a strange sense of familiarity prickled his skin. It was addressed to someone named Eliza, expressing a longing he couldn't quite place. He ran a hand through his hair, a sudden chill despite the warm afternoon light filtering through the window. Who *was* Eliza?