Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia's hands, but the chill seeped into her bones regardless. Rain hammered against the attic window, a rhythm mimicking the thudding in her chest. She had re-read the email three times, each pass a fresh wave of disbelief. It was all there, laid bare: the side-by-side comparisons, the subtle shifts in language, the undeniable truth. Her favorite author, Eleanor Vance, the woman who had crafted the world Amelia escaped into every night, had pilfered her own short stories.

Amelia set the mug down with a clatter. Her legs felt like lead. She’d spent countless hours, years even, pouring her heart into those tales. Now, the magic felt tainted, the words themselves hollow. The attic, once a sanctuary, now felt suffocating, filled with the ghosts of stolen inspiration. She pushed a stray strand of hair from her face, the motion slow, deliberate. It was a futile gesture, really. She didn’t know what to do.