Gemotions

The afternoon light filtered weakly through the blinds, casting stripes across the dusty floor. He'd been lying on the couch for hours, the television a blurred distraction. The package, addressed to "Clara Hawthorne," sat propped against the wall near the door. He’d barely registered the knock, and the ensuing delivery. He had no desire to open it, to know what treasures or troubles awaited. His gaze kept returning to the faded patterns of the wallpaper, a tapestry of forgotten yesterdays.