Gemotions

The afternoon sun cast long shadows as Mark examined the parcel. He frowned, his brow furrowing. "To: Professor Eleanor Vance," the label declared. The professor had disappeared without a trace last year. The police had interviewed him, of course, when he moved in.

He found it difficult to breathe. The air in the hallway seemed suddenly thin. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture almost frantic. What if it was a bomb? He chided himself internally. It was probably just junk mail. But he couldn't shake the sensation of being exposed, vulnerable.

He decided he would leave it unopened. He wouldn't touch it. He just needed to figure out what to do with it.