Gemotions

The dusty smell of old books and leather bound journals filled the study. Thomas had loved the quiet knowledge of collecting rare books. The books lined the walls, a testament to his life. She had never understood his passion, yet found comfort in the way he always took the time to explain his love for the stories. She now avoided the room, the absence of his voice a physical ache.

Then her son, Ethan, began to explore the collection. He started reading the texts and filling notebooks with annotations. She watched him, his brow furrowed in concentration. The boy would stay up past midnight pouring over them. He was so like his father.

One day, she found Ethan meticulously polishing a first edition. “Dad said this one was really special,” he said, his voice hesitant, the way his father’s had been when he wanted to share his treasures. She looked away, a wave of sickness washing over her.