Gemotions

The low thrum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the apartment, besides the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the worn tabletop. Everything felt heavy, weighed down. The mail had been piling up, bills mostly, but this morning a small, unassuming box sat perched on the stack. The name on the label read "Emily Carter," the previous tenant. He considered just tossing it in the trash, but something – a flicker of something he couldn't name – made him pick it up. He held it, turning it over in his hands, wondering.