Gemotions

He stared at the package, the bright yellow tape a jarring contrast to the muted tones of the hallway. The name on the label, "Mr. Davies," meant nothing to him. He’d lived here for a few months, and the place still felt like a hollow shell. He felt weary, as if he'd walked for miles carrying an invisible burden.

He dragged the box inside. He hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights. The apartment felt cold and empty, the shadows clinging to the corners of the rooms. He didn't even bother to open it; instead, he left it on the kitchen counter, next to the unwashed dishes from last night's takeout. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of profound depletion.