Gemotions

The vibrant colors of the world seemed to have faded. Everything felt muted, as if drained of all vitality. The laughter on the street, the sunlight through the window, the very air he breathed, all failed to elicit a response. He sat in the center of the living room, listening to the incessant drone of the refrigerator.

A package. The doorbell. He ignored it for several moments. Then, with a weary sigh, he got up. "To: Henry Blackwood." The name, like a phantom, stirred something within him. The previous resident. He vaguely recalled the landlord mentioning something about an artist.

He took the box inside. He barely glanced at the label. He put it on the table. The image of the cheerful delivery driver remained in his mind. He sat on the sofa. He felt a deep weariness, a profound sense of loss, although he could not identify what it was that he had lost.