Gemotions

The coffee shop buzzed with chatter, but I heard nothing. My gaze was locked on the newspaper. There it was, Finch’s byline, splashed across the front page. Another masterpiece, they called it. Another lie. My hands shook as I reached for my phone, scrolling through the contacts.

I found it. The number. I took a deep breath. A shaky one. Then I dialed. "Mr. Finch," I said, my voice carefully neutral, "I believe you're interested in purchasing my collection of antique typewriters. Perhaps we could meet?"

The reply was a hesitant yes. The meeting was set for a private gallery on the outskirts of town. I could hardly breathe.

The gallery had been my grandmother's. It was filled with relics, stories, and the ghosts of the past. It felt perfect.