Gemotions

The dusty attic air hung heavy, thick with the scent of forgotten things. Sarah ran a hand across a faded tapestry, the threads rough and unyielding. Months she'd spent up here, hunched over her research, trying to breathe life into her historical novel. The words refused to cooperate. Her enthusiasm had evaporated weeks ago.

A frantic phone call from her editor snapped her out of her stupor. “Sarah, we have a situation. Another author, the same subject, the same angle.” Her editor paused, then added, “Even the same protagonist’s name.”

Sarah felt the blood drain from her face. It felt as if her creative core had been somehow… invaded. The attic, once a haven, now felt oppressive. She wanted to smash something, scream at the injustice, or simply disappear.