Gemotions

Thomas stared at the slim, rectangular package. The handwriting on the label was elegant, spidery, a stark contrast to the blocky, impersonal typeface of modern mail. It was addressed to "Ms. Eleanor Ainsworth," a name he hadn't heard spoken in this address in five years.

He found himself pacing the hallway, the package clutched in his hand. He hadn't expected any delivery today. He felt a kind of disquiet. What could Eleanor have ordered?

He walked back and sat on the sofa. He placed the parcel in front of him. He thought of opening it, then recoiled. He looked at the window, and then decided he would open it. He pulled the paper away and saw a small, antique book.