Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the kitchen counter, addressed to "Mr. Alistair Finch." He'd been in this apartment for five years, and the previous tenant, well, he barely remembered the guy. Something about an architect, or maybe a designer. He'd never met him, just seen the forwarding address on a few stray pieces of mail. He lifted the box, surprised by its weight.

A chill snaked up his spine. He couldn't quite place the feeling; a sort of quiet sadness, maybe? He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he hadn't realized he was still doing. The morning light cast long shadows across the room, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air.

He sliced through the packing tape. Inside, nestled in layers of crumpled paper, was a leather-bound journal and a set of drafting pencils. He picked up the journal, its cover worn smooth, and flipped through it. Sketches of buildings, half-formed ideas, words scrawled in a hasty, looping hand.

A pang resonated within him, a recognition of something lost. He felt the weight of unspoken stories, of opportunities missed and dreams deferred. He closed the journal, the weight of it suddenly too much.