Gemotions

The musty scent of aged paper and binding glue filled Arthur's nostrils as he flipped through the used copy of *Wuthering Heights*. He’d chosen it solely for its worn cover, a small act of defiance against the pristine, new books that mocked him from the shelves. His fingers, stained with ink from a deliberately messy penmanship practice, snagged on something tucked between pages.

He tugged it out, a brittle, yellowed letter. The script was elegant, florid, and completely indecipherable to him. He crumpled the paper, savoring the sound it made, a small, satisfying crackle. He let out a breath and tossed it in the trash, the wastebasket a small, inconsequential sacrifice.

He returned the book to the shelf. The others, the smiling faces, the well-meaning glances – they didn’t deserve his time. He’d do what he wanted when he wanted. Let them.