Gemotions

The package, large and imposing, was propped against the door. "Ms. Henrietta Grimshaw," it read. He knew the name. The woman had been a thorn in his side while she lived there, constantly complaining about noise, about the squirrels, about everything.

He barely glanced at it, but he knew the telltale shape: a box of expensive bath products, judging by the size. He rolled his eyes, a familiar muscle ache. He thought the woman might not deserve such pleasant things.

He nudged the box away from the door with his foot, letting it sit in the sun.