Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the doorstep, a beige rectangle stubbornly resisting the rain. Amelia nudged it with her foot, not really caring if it fell over. It had been like that for days. Packages arrived. They were always for "Mr. Henderson," the previous owner. Amelia hadn't bothered to notify the delivery services. What was the point?

Inside, she found a heavy, leather-bound journal. The pages were blank, waiting. She traced the worn spine with a fingertip. An odd ache resonated in her chest, a hollow echo of unfulfilled potential. She considered throwing it away. She considered writing in it. Neither option held any allure.

The smell of old paper and something else, something faintly floral, filled the air. She set the journal on the kitchen counter, where it joined the pile of unopened mail and the abandoned half-eaten apple. She sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the unopened journal itself.