Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windowpane as Arthur huddled in his armchair, a blanket wrapped around him. He hadn't felt this... well, this *something* in years. He’d found the book, *A Year in Provence*, at a flea market. It was a purchase meant to distract him from the emptiness in his apartment.

He traced the spine idly, and a folded piece of paper slipped out. It was a train ticket stub, dated 1958, and a note written on a hotel notepad. “Meet me by the fountain. Bring the lilies.” The handwriting was a jaunty, carefree scrawl.

He closed his eyes, imagining the couple, young and hopeful, arranging their rendezvous. The image was vivid, almost painful. He remembered, so very clearly, the weight of a hand in his own, the whisper of a name on his lips. His throat constricted, and he felt a profound sense of… something he hadn't felt in a very long time.