Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the doorstep, addressed to "Alistair Finch." Amelia knew Alistair Finch. He’d moved out three months ago. She kicked the box, hard, and it didn't budge. *Typical,* she thought, her jaw tightening. She dragged it inside, across the welcome mat, ignoring the grit and grime it deposited on the floor.

She considered calling the delivery company, but dismissed the idea. The thought of dealing with customer service, with their scripted pleasantries and endless hold music, made her want to scream. She huffed, picked up a box cutter, and sliced the tape.

Inside, nestled in packing peanuts, was a leather-bound journal. Amelia picked it up, flipped through the crisp, blank pages. A small, self-satisfied smile crept across her face. This was *hers* now. She'd put it somewhere safe – the attic.