Gemotions

The late afternoon sun streamed through the dusty window of Elias’s attic room, casting long shadows across the floor. He sat hunched over a stack of old books, the air thick with the scent of forgotten stories. His shoulders slumped, and he repeatedly blinked as he tried to focus on the text. The dim light was making it a struggle. A yawn escaped his lips.

As he flipped through a well-worn volume, a small, folded note floated out. He picked it up with a slow, deliberate movement.

"My Dearest Eliza," it began, written in a flourish. His eyes drifted closed for a moment.