Gemotions

The flickering gaslight cast long, dancing shadows across the dusty room. Thomas ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. He'd been expecting the letter. He had been waiting, but that didn't make the discovery any easier. His chest was tight, his breathing shallow.

A single page had fallen from a crumbling volume of poetry. A letter, penned in a delicate hand, spoke of fear, of a looming danger. He read and reread the final sentence: “They’re coming.” His mind raced, his imagination running riot.

The floorboards creaked. He whirled around, heart hammering against his ribs. He felt watched, hunted. He had to destroy it, but he also had to understand. He stuffed the letter back inside the book, returning it to its shelf, feeling the cold air of the room chilling his bones.