Gemotions

He found them on the doorstep when he returned from work. A simple arrangement of lilies, their white blooms ghostly in the twilight. His gut twisted. He knew this wasn't right. It couldn't be a friendly gesture.

His steps were slow and deliberate as he carried them inside. The air in his flat suddenly felt thin, as though someone had removed the oxygen from it. He quickly locked the door, securing the deadbolt. Then, he went through the house, checking under the beds, in the closets, behind the shower curtain.

He felt the prickle of sweat on his skin. He couldn't shake the image of someone standing outside, watching, waiting. The lilies, innocent in appearance, felt like a message, a warning. He dropped them into the trash, the rustle of the paper bag the only sound in the apartment.