Gemotions

He stared at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster with his gaze. Hours seemed to bleed together, each indistinguishable from the last. The television blared in the background, a cacophony of sound he barely registered. He hadn't changed the channel in, well, he couldn’t remember.

A knock. Then, a voice, a cheerful lilt through the door. The delivery guy. This wasn't his. The label read "Esmeralda Finch," not his name. Still, he took the package inside.

He sat on the floor, the box between his legs. The packaging tape screamed as he tore it open. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a single, intricately carved wooden bird. He ran a fingertip over its smooth surface. A peculiar sense of emptiness filled him.