Gemotions

The package was small, almost insignificant. It was addressed to "Mr. Arthur Finch," a name I only vaguely remembered from the landlord’s roster. The previous tenant, a grumpy old fellow, had vacated the place months ago, leaving behind a mess of junk. I felt a strange stirring of emotion.

I picked up the package. It felt unusually light. I found a knife and slit the tape.

Inside, I found a single, framed photograph. It showed a younger Arthur, smiling, holding a fishing rod. He looked so happy. I found a note, too. It was addressed to his late wife. I imagined him losing her.

The address label had been partially torn, but I could make out a post office box number. I felt drawn to try and find him.