Gemotions

Michael drummed his fingers on the worn wooden table, a nervous energy coursing through him. He checked the clock. Only five more minutes until the book signing. He’d spent months, years even, pouring over every page of Beatrice Bloom’s novels, her words providing comfort and escape. Today, he’d finally meet the woman whose stories had shaped his own writing aspirations. He’d even prepared a heartfelt speech, a testament to her influence.

A young woman approached, her face pale. She spoke in hushed tones, gesturing at a phone. The woman was pointing at a viral post – a side-by-side comparison of Beatrice Bloom's latest release and an obscure online novella. The similarities were staggering. Michael’s stomach lurched.

He edged closer, his eyes scanning the damning screenshots. Line after line of Bloom's prose echoed that of the unknown author, a writer who deserved recognition. The air in the bookshop seemed to thicken, a palpable weight pressing down. His speech, now worthless, crumbled in his mind.