Gemotions

He stared at the package, the delivery man’s hasty retreat still echoing in his ears. "To Bartholomew Finch," the label announced, a name that tasted like ash in his mouth. Bartholomew Finch hadn't lived here in years, vanished without a trace. His pulse hammered against his ribs.

He ripped open the box, the cardboard tearing under his raw grip. Inside, nestled in packing peanuts, was a child’s rocking horse, its painted smile chipped and eerie. His skin prickled with goosebumps. He needed air.

He stumbled backwards, knocking over the coat rack. Coats and scarves scattered across the floor, but he didn't even notice. He just breathed, the air feeling thin and inadequate. The rocking horse seemed to sway, just a little, in the quiet room.