Gemotions

The world seemed to have tilted on its axis for David. He’d spent years meticulously collecting first editions of Silas Blackwood's novels, his prized possession. Now, they were tainted. Each book, once a source of immense pleasure, now felt like a lead weight in his hands. He ran a hand across his face, scrubbing at the weariness etched there.

He sat on the couch, the article on his phone reflecting in his glasses. The evidence was irrefutable. Blackwood, the master of the macabre, the literary genius, was a fraud. A wave of nausea washed over him.

David considered going for a walk, but the thought of facing the world felt overwhelming. The sunlight filtering through the curtains seemed harsh, and the quiet of the apartment amplified the unsettling quiet in his soul. He leaned back against the cushions, feeling utterly depleted.