Gemotions

He’d bought the book – a slim volume of poems by a forgotten Victorian author – hoping for a quiet afternoon. Thomas ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair. The clock on the wall seemed to tick louder than usual, each second amplified by the sudden pressure building in his chest.

The book smelled of old libraries and something else, something metallic and sharp. A folded piece of paper slipped from the pages near the end, marked with a faded pressed flower. His gut clenched; a wave of something akin to panic washed over him.

It was a doctor's note, yellowed and brittle, addressed to a “Miss Eleanor Blackwood.” The handwriting was precise, clinical, but the words… the words detailed a fear, a terror even, that mirrored his own recent anxieties. Thomas felt the room spin, the world tilting precariously.