He stared out the window, watching the rain streak down the glass, each drop a tiny, fleeting world of its own. He felt a profound sense of… emptiness. The familiar rhythm of the city outside – the distant sirens, the chattering crowds – felt hollow, like a soundtrack to a play he wasn't in. He felt a deep, slow lethargy settling in his bones, as if a great weight had been placed upon his shoulders. He drummed his fingers on the windowsill, the repetitive tapping echoing in the otherwise quiet room.
A package arrived, delivered by the postman. It was a thick, unmarked parcel, and he hefted it with a casual curiosity. Inside, nestled amongst layers of bubble wrap, was a small, wooden box. He pried it open and discovered a letter. The handwriting was hesitant, unfamiliar. It was from a man named Daniel, a man he'd barely known, a man from his college days.
Daniel's letter was an apology. It was a confession, a testament to a long-ago betrayal. It detailed a lie Daniel had once told, a lie that had, in retrospect, caused him far more anguish than it had brought him any satisfaction. He read it twice, then a third time. His breathing became shallow. It was strange, the intensity of the feelings he experienced. An unfamiliar heat rushed through him. The sensation felt like a buzzing electricity, making his hands tingle.