Gemotions

The scent of damp earth and blooming lilacs always did it. Amelia inhaled deeply, the fragrance clinging to the air like a phantom embrace. She stood in front of her childhood home, the paint peeling, the garden overgrown, but still, undeniably, hers. This morning, a notification popped up on her phone. A journal had posted her article. She scrolled through the magazine's website, an electric current running through her. The title was perfect, the prose flowed just as she intended, but the byline… it was not her. It was "Mark Ashton." She felt a strange tingling in her fingertips, the same sensation she'd experienced as a child, on the swing set in her backyard.

This was not right.

She recalled the feel of the dirt on her hands as she planted seeds in the garden.