Gemotions

The bookstore was a refuge, a haven from the relentless noise of the city. Amelia often lost herself amongst the towering shelves. Today, a slim volume of poetry, *Sonnets from the Portuguese*, beckoned. She ran her finger along the spine, a tingle of anticipation coursing through her.

Within the book, a pressed flower, its color faded but its form still delicate, lay beside a tiny, folded note. The note was brief, a single, passionate declaration. It was signed with a flourish that made her pulse quicken.

She spent the afternoon rereading the poem and the note, her own emotions mirroring the fervent sentiment on the page. She found herself whispering the words aloud, her voice filled with a yearning she hadn't known she possessed.