Gemotions

The clock on the microwave blinked 2:17 PM. Sarah chewed on the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit that intensified when time stretched out, refusing to move. She had already cleaned the entire apartment, twice. The dust motes dancing in the sunlight mocked her productivity.

A package arrived, delivered by a frazzled-looking young man with a clipboard. The address was correct, the name wasn't. "For a Ms. Eleanor Vance," it proclaimed. Sarah felt a faint flicker of annoyance.

She almost didn’t bring the box inside. But a persistent feeling of… something, held her in place. The box was light. She upended it. Inside, a collection of vintage postcards tumbled out, each depicting a different exotic locale.