Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the welcome mat, a taunting square of brown. Eleanor nudged it with her foot, not wanting to touch it. It was addressed to "Ms. Anya Petrova, Apt. 3B." Anya Petrova. The woman who’d lived here before, the one who’d apparently had a life. Eleanor slammed the door shut, the sound echoing the frustration that clenched her jaw.

She went to the kitchen and made a pot of tea. Watching the steam curl from the mug, she found herself tracing the same, familiar routes. It was the same as it always was. Her days. Her routines. The thought was a lead weight in her stomach.

The doorbell rang. She knew who it was even before she opened the door. The postman, with a sympathetic look on his face. "Another one for Anya," he said, holding out a padded envelope. Eleanor took it, her smile a thin, brittle thing. "Thanks."