Gemotions

He’d been running late all morning, a whirlwind of scrambled eggs and missed bus connections. Now, this. Michael held the card, a single, unassuming rectangle, and his carefully constructed composure began to unravel. The handwriting was neat, almost unsettlingly so. “Happy Birthday.” And nothing else. No return address, no name. A knot tightened in his stomach.

He threw the card on the passenger seat of his car, the mundane object suddenly a threat. He glanced at it, repeatedly, as he drove. His palms were sweating. The usual commute felt fraught with unspoken menace.

He arrived at work, the office's usual bustle a jarring contrast to his inner turmoil. He couldn’t focus. Every phone call, every email, felt laced with an undercurrent of something he couldn't name. He kept replaying the events of the morning in his mind, searching for an explanation, a reason. There was none.