Gemotions

The musty scent of old paper and leather did little to soothe Arthur's frayed nerves. Another Tuesday. Another stack of invoices demanding his attention. He’d slammed the book, a tattered copy of "Wuthering Heights," onto the table, barely glancing at the cover, just eager to lose himself in something – anything – other than spreadsheet hell. He’d been expecting a decent escape but the story had been less than engaging so far. He flipped open the front cover to close the book for good. A folded piece of yellowed paper fluttered out.

He snatched it up, fingers clenching automatically. An old letter, penned in elegant script. He glared at it for a moment, resenting the interruption to his already fractured concentration. What fresh indignity was this? He unfolded the fragile sheet, the paper cracking like dried leaves.

The handwriting was unfamiliar. He started to read, his frown deepening with each sentence. Love letters, he thought with a snort, and the gall of this person to leave them in the pages for him to find. He’d barely made it through the first paragraph when he wanted to hurl the letter across the room.