Gemotions

The package was small, but it felt impossibly heavy. It sat on the dining room table, a dark stain against the polished wood. The name, "Mrs. Eleanor Thorne," a stranger, a relic, was a reminder of the life she’d worked so hard to leave behind.

Her stomach churned. The faint scent of something stale, like old mothballs, emanated from the seams. She couldn't bring herself to even think about what was inside.

She pushed it away with the edge of her hand, recoiling as if she'd been burned.