Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window of the small, cluttered bookstore. Michael sank into the worn armchair, the scent of aged paper and leather a familiar comfort. He'd come here every Saturday since he was a child, drawn to the hushed atmosphere and the promise of discovery. Today, it was a re-reading of his childhood hero’s work, Silas Blackwood.

His fingers traced the embossed lettering on the cover of *The Serpent's Secret*. The words, once so magical, now tasted like ash. He’d felt a deep affinity for Blackwood’s stories, his characters, his style.

He flipped through the pages, a sickening unease growing within him. He'd even written a similar story when he was fifteen. It was tucked away in a dusty old drawer at his parents' place. He had an awful suspicion about how similar they were.