Gemotions

The sunlight streaming through the window seemed too bright, assaulting Amelia's eyes. She felt like a deflated balloon. She’d always admired Silas Blackwood, his prose a beacon in her life. Now, that beacon had been extinguished.

She sat at her desk, the half-written manuscript mocking her with its emptiness. The pen felt heavy in her hand, the paper a vast, intimidating expanse. She usually thrived on writing, finding solace in her words.

She rose, restless, and started pacing. Her feet felt leaden against the floorboards. Her usual energy was gone, replaced by a deep, pervasive weariness.