Gemotions

The box, addressed to "Ms. Anya Petrova," lay on the doorstep like a silent accusation. Anya had been… difficult. A whirlwind of eccentricities that had left a permanent mark on the apartment. John had meticulously gone through the process of trying to erase Anya’s mark, and now this.

He dragged the package inside, his shoulders stiff. It felt like an unwelcome guest, a reminder of the chaotic life he'd worked so hard to escape. He placed it on the floor, the glossy surface of the box reflecting his grim face.

Inside, he discovered a book. A book of abstract art. The irony was almost too much to bear.