Gemotions

The concert hall was packed. The orchestra began playing the opening notes of a piece that had appeared in Finch's last novel, a piece that, unbeknownst to most, was taken verbatim from my own unpublished symphony. I leaned back in my seat, the music washing over me.

The performance was exquisite, technically perfect. And utterly meaningless. I felt the familiar weight of frustration, a heavy sadness that settled deep within my chest. I considered leaving. But I didn't move. The whole experience felt irrelevant.