Gemotions

The afternoon was heavy, the air thick with unspoken things. A package lay on the counter, addressed to "Mr. Harold Finch." He felt a tightening in his throat, a sudden need to flee. He barely knew Harold, but the name, the address on the box, brought the memories crashing down.

He walked past the package, not even glancing at it. He moved toward the back door, needing air, needing to escape the suffocating walls. He started to walk toward the park, anywhere to get away. The world was blurry at the edges.