Gemotions

The afternoon sun, a lukewarm presence, plastered itself against the window. Amelia sighed, the sound a low, drawn-out exhalation that seemed to ripple through the otherwise silent apartment. She picked at the chipped nail polish on her thumb, then tossed the offending finger back onto the cushion of the sofa. Another day, another cycle of nothingness.

A thud echoed from the hallway, followed by the familiar drone of the building's ancient elevator. Amelia knew what it was before she even got to the door. Another delivery. She shuffled to the peephole, her shoulders slumping.

A nondescript brown box sat on the welcome mat. The name on the label – “Mr. Silas Blackwood” – was unfamiliar. Silas Blackwood was the name of the previous tenant. A wave of restlessness washed over her. She considered leaving the package there, letting the building handle it, but curiosity, a persistent, unwelcome visitor, tugged at her.