Gemotions

He stared at the package resting on his front step. "Mr. Peterson," the label read. He knew the name, a former resident of the place, years before. He brought it inside, the cold air hitting his face. He felt little reaction as he placed the parcel on his kitchen table.

He moved toward the stove. He put water in the kettle and turned on the burner. The water began to boil, its sound gentle in the quiet room. He fixed himself a cup of tea. After a while, he went back to the table and, with barely a thought, sliced the tape with a butter knife. The box held a collection of worn, leather-bound books. He picked one up, opening it, and began to read.