Gemotions

The box, addressed to "Arthur Finch," was propped up against the dented mailbox, blocking his path. He glared at it. Another one. He was tired of being the unwitting forwarding service for some stranger's mislaid belongings. He grabbed the box, his fingers curling with a familiar tension.

He carried it inside, the weight of the cardboard somehow heavier than it should have been. The fluorescent lights of his kitchen hummed, a monotonous drone that matched his mood. He dropped the box onto the counter with a loud thud, the sound reverberating through the small apartment.

He ripped it open. A collection of old photographs spilled out, faded and blurry. He tossed them back into the box and slammed it shut, the sound echoing in his ears. He wasn't even going to bother. He’d leave it for the garbage collectors to deal with.