Gemotions

He went to the beach, his usual place of respite, and the waves crashed and churned, mirroring the turmoil within him. The accusations were confirmed: Alexander Thorne, the writer whose books had filled his shelves, had stolen from him.

He kicked at the sand, sending a spray of grains into the air. He tried to focus on the horizon, but the image of Thorne’s face, smug and untouchable, kept intruding. The sun, usually a source of comfort, now seemed to beat down with a relentless intensity, burning his skin, matching the burn inside him. He felt as if the very air around him was heavy, suffocating. He needed to get away.