Gemotions

He stretched languidly, the muscles in his back slowly unfurling. Sunlight streamed through the open window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient oak outside. He'd just finished a long drawing session, and his fingers still held the faint scent of charcoal. A knock at the door.

He moved towards the entry hall with slow, deliberate steps. A delivery person, a young woman with bright, excited eyes, presented him with a box. “This is for… Mr. Alistair Finch?” She looked at the address with a slightly furrowed brow. “Are you…?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head gently. “He moved out a while ago. I’ll make sure it gets back to the sender.” He accepted the package without much ado, his gaze drifting back to the window. He was content to be interrupted.

He set the box down with little interest, heading to his studio, eager to go back to his art. There would be time later.