Gemotions

Rain streaked the windowpane, mirroring the paths of the tears that had begun to trace down Amelia's cheeks. She hugged the worn copy of "Whispers of the Wildwood" tighter, the cover softened from countless readings. Now, the book felt like a lead weight. A notification had flashed on her phone: "Allegations against Silas Blackwood." Blackwood, her hero, the author whose prose had pulled her from the darkest corners of her own mind. The article’s words, cold and clinical, detailed the striking similarities between Blackwood’s celebrated novel and a collection of short stories, one of which Amelia had penned in her college creative writing class.

Her stomach churned. The comforting scent of old paper and ink now assaulted her senses. She felt a profound emptiness, a hollowness that seemed to expand with each passing second. The world outside, the grey sky and the dripping trees, had suddenly grown oppressive.

She had always dreamt of meeting him, of thanking him for his words, for the solace they provided. Now, the words themselves tasted like ash in her mouth. She dropped the book onto the floor with a dull thud.