Gemotions

He snatched the book off the shelf, the spine cracking in protest. He hadn't meant to purchase a book on Italian Renaissance art; it was a distraction. His life was a jumbled mess, and he’d been hoping for a semblance of control.

He felt heat crawl up his neck as he glanced around, checking to see if anyone was watching. This, too, was a failure. The gallery owner had practically scoffed at his proposal this afternoon, dismissing his ideas as amateurish.

He yanked at the pages, needing to rip out something, anything, in frustration, when his fingers touched an unexpected edge. A small piece of paper, almost hidden in the binding, fell out. He picked it up slowly, his fingers tracing the faded ink.