Gemotions

He had woken up with a song in his heart. It was launch day for Alistair Finch's new novel, *Whispers of the Wind*, and David had been counting down the hours. He bounded down the stairs, already planning his evening. He planned to make his favorite dinner, pour a glass of wine, and submerge himself in Finch’s world. He was practically bouncing.

Settled into his armchair, a blanket draped over his legs, the book was a warm weight in his hands. He opened it and was instantly drawn in. The language, the imagery, the captivating plot. He leaned back, his eyes closed, drinking it all in.

A chill ran up his spine. The air grew heavy, thick with the weight of dread. A story he'd once penned, a mere exercise in his youth. It was all there, rewritten, polished, and presented as Finch's original work. His hands began to tremble.

He felt the chair tilt forward. He grabbed the side table to steady himself, and accidentally spilled his wine. The stain spread across the rug, mirroring the stain now spreading across his soul.