Gemotions

He picked up the well-worn leather-bound notebook from the desk. His hands, usually steady, trembled slightly. The room, Dr. Ramirez’s office, was familiar, comfortable. He knew the creak of the floorboards, the way the light hit the window at a certain hour.

He flipped through the notebook, a record of drafts, research notes, and scribbled inspirations. Each page a reminder of shared laughter, frustrating dead ends, and the quiet satisfaction of progress.

A pang in his chest felt like a phantom limb, an ache for something that was vanishing. He ran a hand over the embossed title on the cover, his fingers tracing the letters as if trying to hold onto them.