Gemotions

A delivery man handed me the package with a grunt, barely making eye contact. “For Mrs. Eleanor Vance,” he mumbled, and vanished. I knew the name, the woman who had lived here before me, a woman whose absence felt like a forgotten melody. I’d seen her name on old utility bills.

I brought the rectangular parcel into the kitchen and sat it on the counter, turning it over in my hands. It was unusually light. A prickle of unease ran down my spine as I sliced through the tape. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a single, perfect white orchid. I couldn’t understand the meaning behind this.