Gemotions

The air in the apartment felt stale, even with the window propped open. Clara had spent the morning cleaning, a frantic attempt to find some kind of order in the chaos of her thoughts. But the dust motes dancing in the sunlight only seemed to mock her efforts. The package, addressed to "Mrs. Eleanor Finch," sat on the kitchen table.

Clara traced the faded name with her finger. Eleanor Finch…she’d read the tenant’s file. Eccentric, the landlord had said. Clara picked up the box, her palms slick with sweat. A faint scent of lavender emanated from it. She wanted to throw it away but she found herself moving for a knife.