Gemotions

He flipped through the pages, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow. The file wasn't his. This woman, the one whose life now shared a digital space with his, loved opera. He hadn't thought about opera in years, not since his grandfather, a man who smelled of pipe tobacco and old books, used to play it on a scratchy vinyl record.

His jaw tightened. He could almost hear the music now, a phantom soundscape. His fingers trembled as he scanned the woman’s childhood vaccinations, feeling a familiar tug in his stomach. The taste of his mother’s cooking, specifically the scent of cinnamon and cloves, drifted across his thoughts.

He closed his eyes, the weight of the past pressing down on him. The hospital had apologized, of course. But the apology felt hollow, a meaningless gesture against the sudden rush of memories, vivid and intense, that flooded his mind.