Gemotions

He stared at the photograph, his hand trembling as he held it. Mark and I, beaming, arms slung around each other at the summit of Mount Cinder. The air was thin, the view breathtaking. He had said it was beautiful. But I did not remember beauty.

The memory was a jagged shard piercing my mind. The wind, not a gentle breeze, but a howling gale tearing at my clothes. The sheer drop, the abyss yawning beneath us. The feeling of… of utter exposure.

“You said you saw… a black bird,” Mark said, his voice hesitant. I forced a laugh, a brittle, hollow sound. A black bird? It was a ridiculous thing to say. But his eyes… they were reflecting the same unsettling fear I was feeling. He remembered something I did not. Something, it seemed, that I was desperate to forget. My breath hitched, a thin, shallow gasp.