Gemotions

She hadn't eaten. She hadn't showered. The blinds remained drawn, casting the room in perpetual twilight. A package sat on the doormat, addressed to "Mr. Alistair Finch," another echo of the past, another reminder of what was lost. She knew she had to take it, but the floor felt like quicksand.

Her throat felt tight. He had been happy, once, here. She wondered if he had known how easy it was to lose everything.

She sank further into the abyss of her silence, the package a silent witness to her internal turmoil. She just remained.