Gemotions

The bookstore smelled of dust and forgotten hopes. Elara traced a finger across the spine of the worn copy of *Wuthering Heights*. Another Friday night, another purchase to fill the hollow ache. She’d promised herself she’d get out more, meet people. But the prospect felt… strenuous.

Her thumb hooked the page, and a yellowed piece of paper fluttered out. A letter, its script looping and elegant. She squinted, the fluorescent lights of the shop seemed to blur.

*My dearest Eleanor,* the letter began. Elara found herself barely registering the words. She felt the same pull, the same heavy weight on her shoulders she always did, like she was wading through treacle. The ink bled slightly, the paper brittle.