Gemotions

He snatched the mail from the slot, eyes narrowed. A small, cream-colored envelope. A birthday card. Unsigned. The paper felt slick and expensive, taunting in its anonymity. *Must be a mistake,* he thought, though his stomach churned with a familiar unease.

He retreated to his kitchen, the card clutched in a sweaty hand. He scanned the message—a meaningless platitude. He tossed it onto the counter, where it landed face-up, like a judgmental eye. He poured himself a stiff drink, the ice clinking like tiny, accusing bells.