Gemotions

Michael stretched languidly in his armchair, the afternoon light painting stripes across the Persian rug. The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock filled the quiet room. He had just finished a particularly satisfying chapter in his novel, and a deep contentment settled within him. The mail slot clattered. He ambled to the door, a slight smile playing on his lips. He gathered the mail, a stack of envelopes, and a single, unmarked card.

He held it up to the light, turning it over in his fingers. An oddity. He usually knew who sent him cards, even if he did not always know when he would get them. He placed the mail on the hall table and returned to his book, dismissing the card's presence as a trivial matter. The warmth of the afternoon cocooned him, and he sank back into his book, the world outside fading into a pleasant background hum.