Gemotions

The bookstore, normally a sanctuary for Clara, suddenly felt like a cage. She'd been a long-time admirer of Julian Blackwood, his prose, his characters, his entire persona. Now, standing amidst the carefully curated displays of his work, she felt a profound sense of violation. The news was everywhere; Blackwood had borrowed from a small, independent author, a name Clara didn't recognize.

Her fingers traced the spines of Blackwood’s novels. She'd spent countless hours lost in their pages. Now, she felt a strange disconnect, the words on the pages seeming to mock her. She went to the front counter to ask for a refund of her book, but her voice died in her throat.

She turned to leave, her shoulders slumped. The scent of fresh paper and ink, normally so comforting, felt noxious. Outside, the world felt too loud, the sun too bright.