Gemotions

The apartment felt too small, the walls closing in. The television blared, but the images flickered, failing to hold her attention. She’d tried to bake a cake, only to abandon it halfway through. She was a coiled spring, wound tight. The package, addressed to "Mr. Arthur Finch," was a distraction.

She knew she shouldn't. She knew it would lead to nothing. But something within her demanded action, a compulsion to disrupt the monotony. She picked it up, her fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the cardboard.