Gemotions

The musty scent of aged paper filled Amelia’s nostrils as she thumbed through the used copy of *Wuthering Heights*. She’d been enjoying the grim romance, curled up on her armchair with a cup of chamomile tea, when a folded piece of parchment fluttered loose. Her hands trembled slightly as she picked it up.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm against the quiet of her apartment. The handwriting was elegant, looping script. It spoke of a secret rendezvous, a meeting beneath the willow tree at midnight. A chill snaked down her spine, raising goosebumps on her arms.

She slammed the book shut, her tea sloshing precariously close to the edge of the table. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of leaves outside her window, sounded amplified. She clutched the letter tighter, the paper crinkling in her grasp. The willow tree was in her neighbor's backyard.