Gemotions

The antique shop's dusty air suddenly felt thick, making it hard to breathe. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the dampness of my palms against my scalp. My blood felt like ice in my veins. The seller, a wizened woman with eyes like sharp chips of obsidian, was pointing to the exhibit.

“The automaton. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Her voice was thin, reedy. I nodded, forcing a smile, but my stomach twisted. There, on display, was the exact clockwork mechanism I had been painstakingly crafting in my workshop for a year. Down to the smallest cog and spring.

The woman continued to extol its virtues, while I felt a chilling certainty spread through me. It wasn't possible. Yet, there it was, perfect, complete.