Gemotions

He’d woken up in a cold sweat. Now, standing in front of his local coffee shop, he saw it. A mural. The imagery was unmistakably his, designs he’d sketched out but never committed to creating. His name, "Jaxon Miller," was painted beneath the vibrant, street art. He felt a deep sense of disorientation. His heart pounded.

He hadn’t painted anything publicly in years, not since a disastrous attempt at a graffiti piece had landed him in trouble. How had this happened? He touched a finger to the mural, tracing a line. The paint felt fresh.

People milled about, taking photos, chatting about the work. He felt like an imposter, a phantom in his own life. A woman with a camera approached. "Excuse me, are you Jaxon Miller?" He stammered, unsure of how to answer. The world had shifted on its axis.