Gemotions

The sun streamed in through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Michael hummed, a cheerful sound he hadn't made in months. The package lay on the counter, addressed to "Ms. Davies," the former owner of this flat. He’d almost ignored it, assuming it was junk mail. But something, an inexplicable pull, had drawn him back.

He’d almost missed the small, handwritten note that had been taped to the box. It said, "Please forward to my new address!" He looked around, checking to make sure he was alone. A secret, he thought. A chance to be helpful.

His fingers flew as he ripped open the package. He had to know. He *needed* to know.