Gemotions

The sun, a weak disc in the winter sky, cast long shadows across the empty park. James, sitting on a bench, watched the pigeons peck at the ground. He had the book, *The Picture of Dorian Gray*, in his lap. He'd wanted to feel something, even if the feelings were terrible.

A letter, penned in elegant cursive, tumbled out from between the pages.

*Beauty fades, truth withers. There is nothing to hold onto, only the slow unraveling.* James stared at the words, barely registering them. He was used to the unraveling.