Gemotions

The antique shop was dimly lit, filled with the scent of aged wood and forgotten treasures. Michael, browsing, felt a familiar sense of detachment. He found solace in the quiet solitude of this place.

He picked up a leather-bound copy of *Hamlet*. He needed to feel something, anything. As he opened the book, a pressed flower, a faded violet, fell onto the floor, along with a scrap of paper.

*The play's the thing... and yet, what is the thing? I give up.* Michael bent to pick up the flower, its petals brittle as bone. He’d continue on, though, as always.