Gemotions

The concert hall felt stifling. Sweat beaded on Leo's forehead even though the air conditioning was blasting. He clutched the crumpled program in his fist, his knuckles bone-white. The headline "The Maestro's Masterpiece" glared back at him. It was *his* concerto, the one he had slaved over for years, now attributed to the newly celebrated composer, "Maestro Rossi."

He shifted in his seat, the rustle of the audience's clothes amplifying the internal chaos. He felt a constant, restless urge to move, to stand up, to shout. He took a shaky breath, trying to calm the racing thrum in his chest.

The conductor raised his baton, the music began, and Leo felt the world start to spin. The stolen melodies echoed in his ears, a cruel mockery of his passion.