Gemotions

He gripped the book tightly, its cover worn smooth from countless readings. He’d found it at a flea market, drawn to its familiar weight and the promise of escape. As he opened it, a pressed flower, brittle and faded, tumbled out. He stared at it, his lip curling slightly.

He was not in the mood for sentimentality. He wanted adventure. He wanted a story. He crushed the flower in his hand, letting the petals crumble to dust. He was going to throw the entire thing away. It was all a complete waste of time. He didn't want to read the book anymore.