Gemotions

He paced his tiny kitchen, the linoleum cold beneath his bare feet. The article on "Chef Antoine's Delectable Duck Confit" in the food magazine sat open on his counter. His Duck Confit. He'd even used the same obscure brand of duck fat. A tremor ran through him. He ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair, eyes darting from the magazine to the locked back door.

He felt the prickle of unease on his skin, a sense of something hidden, lurking. He grabbed his phone and scrolled through the photos he'd taken of the dish when he first made it. Each image was a memory, a testament to his own creativity. The pictures felt like a shield.

He grabbed his coat and hurried out the front door, pausing to check the locks before he left. He had to know if what he thought was true was actually a reality.