Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread usually filled Ethan with comfort, but today, the scent was cloying, almost sickening. He’d just received a call from his publisher; the allegations against his literary idol, Eleanor Vance, were true. His short story, "The Whispering Pines," had been shamelessly pilfered for Vance's latest work.

He pushed the plate of toast away, unable to eat. His stomach churned. He felt a deep hollowness, a sense of emptiness he couldn't explain. He walked through his house, a place that once held a sense of safety and creativity, and found only the echoes of a lost dream.

He went to the basement, to his writing room, the place where he normally felt the most alive. Now, the room felt like a tomb.