Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the welcome mat, a stark white against the worn brick. Amelia bent down, her brow furrowing as she examined the label. “To Mr. Alistair Finch,” it read, a name that echoed in her mind. He was the prior occupant, a ghost in the annals of her apartment building. She hadn't seen him, only inherited the faint scent of pipe tobacco and a lingering sense of quiet from the empty space he’d left behind.

She carried the package inside, the tape catching the light. Inside, she found a finely crafted wooden box, the lid inlaid with mother-of-pearl. What was he doing now, Alistair Finch, that necessitated something so elegant? She traced the smooth surface with a fingertip, a curious sensation swirling in her stomach.