Gemotions

The scent of brewing coffee and the gentle crackle of the fireplace created a sense of well-being in the small cottage. David had spent decades in this house, nestled in the woods, the place filled with memories. He loved the way the sunlight fell on the shelves of books, especially the works of Eleanor Vance, her books about the power of the natural world.

He opened *The Whispering Woods*, and a smile played on his lips. He used to read Vance’s words to his children as they drifted off to sleep, feeling all warm and comfortable. Then he got to one of the chapters, and all of his warmth drained away.

A cold wave of recognition washed over him. The story’s central conflict, its resolution, the very cadence of the prose, echoed his own forgotten tale. His hands trembled as he reread the chapter several times, the words now tasting like bile.