Gemotions

The box was battered, its edges worn. "Occupant," it said, in faded ink. That was it. No name. Just "Occupant." It sat on his porch, a pathetic, unwanted thing. He, Daniel, was the occupant. He had been for six months.

He brought the box inside, feeling a dull ache in his jaw. The tape was failing, and the cardboard sagged. Inside was a collection of old magazines, dating back decades. He flipped through one, the pages brittle and yellowed. He slammed the box shut. This package said absolutely nothing about him, and everything about someone who wasn't there.

He kicked the box across the room.