Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, a stark white rectangle against the muted grey of her screen. It was from Harper Reed, the author whose words had painted Eleanor's world in such vibrant hues for years. Now, though, the email was a weight. It contained a link to a blog post, a confession of sorts, and a list of stories, including one of Eleanor's own, which Reed had, apparently, lifted from others.

Eleanor's fingers trembled as she scrolled through the blog post. Reed spoke of artistic struggles, mental health battles, and a deep, regretful apology. It felt… small, somehow, compared to the years Eleanor had lost herself in Reed's prose. A hot prickling sensation filled Eleanor's eyes, and she felt her chest tighten.

Closing the email, she reached for a framed photograph on her desk. It was of her grandmother, her face crinkled in mirth, holding a well-worn copy of Reed’s first book. Eleanor remembered reading it to her every evening. Slowly, she picked up her phone, dialed a number, and listened to the rings.

“Hello?” a gruff voice answered.

“Dad?” she said, her voice shaking slightly, “Do you have Harper Reed’s number?”