Gemotions

The musty smell of old paper tickled Amelia’s nose as she opened the book. She’d bought it for a song at the flea market, a dusty copy of *Wuthering Heights*. She loved classic literature, and the thought of an old, well-loved copy filled her with warmth. But as a small piece of parchment fluttered to the floor, her smile evaporated. She knelt, retrieving the folded note. Why would anyone hide this here?

Her fingers traced the delicate script, the loops and flourishes of a bygone era. It was a love letter, she realized, addressed to a “Dearest Eliza.” A blush rose on her cheeks; the intimacy of it felt like an intrusion. She reread the opening lines, and a strange tension settled in her shoulders. Who was Eliza? Who had written this? And what connection did it have to this book?

She glanced at the cover again, then the title page. Nothing. Just the name of the previous owner, scrawled faintly in pencil: "Margaret." She felt a sudden chill, as if an unseen presence had entered the room. Her mind was racing.