Gemotions

The afternoon sun streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, and a package addressed to “Mrs. Beatrice Hemlock.” She hated that name. The old tenant, whose shadow had lingered in this apartment, and who had caused her so much pain.

She gripped the counter, knuckles white. A chill ran down her spine. Beatrice Hemlock had a way of turning things sour. She had found many secrets, which the previous tenant had, for reasons she could only guess, left behind.

She slowly picked up the box. The weight of it felt oppressive. Inside, amongst the protective padding, was a collection of antique keys. She dropped them, the clatter echoing in the silence.