Gemotions

The air in the apartment felt thick and stale. I stared out the window, watching the city blur past, a symphony of motion that somehow amplified my internal quiet. The click-clack of the air conditioning was a monotonous, rhythmic thrumming in my ears. I felt… stuck, like a ship adrift in a calm sea. I decided to make coffee, but the act offered no satisfaction.

I found an old box while tidying, filled with old photos of the house's previous owners. Their lives, captured in snapshots, seemed vibrant, full of purpose. I read the letters I found in the box, their words carrying me away from the emptiness.

A curt email arrived that night. The subject line read: "Regarding your property." It was from the police. They wanted to discuss a murder. And my address was on the report.