Gemotions

The shop was crammed with items, each one with its own story. Michael slowly made his way through the isles and stopped short at the case. The ring. It had to be. It was too easy to be the one.

He approached the counter. The owner, a man with a scarred face, was leaning back in his chair, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t meet Michael’s gaze.

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice a gravelly rasp. Michael pointed at the ring. The scenario seemed so improbable, so contrived. It made him feel uneasy.