Gemotions

The mail carrier had just dropped the package and was already hurrying back to his truck. *Amelia Thorne*. The name was a familiar jab. She crumpled the delivery slip in her hand.

She carried the box to the spare bedroom, the one that had been the old tenant's studio. Dust motes danced in the late afternoon light. The air felt heavy, stale. She set the box down, avoiding the sunlight.

Inside, a silk scarf, the color of a bruised plum. She recognized the shop it came from – a store they’d used to frequent together. Her throat constricted. The scarf felt cold, alien in her grasp. She turned away, the room suddenly too small.