Gemotions

The old bookshop felt colder than usual. The scent of aged paper, usually comforting, was now merely a reminder of the quiet emptiness that surrounded him. He sat in his usual chair, a battered armchair by the window, but the pages of the book before him swam before his eyes. He’d gone looking for Mr. Finch, the shop’s owner, expecting a chat about books and life. Mr. Finch had always been a gentle guide. But the shop was locked, and a hand-written sign on the door read, “Closed. Gone fishing.” The world, which had seemed full of possibilities, seemed utterly bleak.