Gemotions

The bookstore was his haven, or at least, that’s what he told himself. He picked up *The Count of Monte Cristo*, a book he'd never read, purely for the weathered feel. His fingers, still stained with grease from work, probed the pages.

A letter. He saw the elegant script. He recognized the name, a cruel twist of fate. He read a few lines. His breath hitched. The words were a monument to everything he had lost.

He returned the book to its shelf. He did not buy anything, and walked away, the ache in his chest growing with each step.