Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the doorstep, a pale rectangle against the worn brick. It was addressed to "Ms. Eleanor Vance," a name he didn't recognize, and it made him clench his jaw. He’d only moved in a month ago, desperate for a fresh start, and now this. A reminder of someone else’s life, someone else’s history, already intruding.

He dragged the box inside, the weight a small burden. He really should leave it for the postman. The thought of it sitting there, a silent sentinel, niggled at him.

His fingers, usually steady, fumbled with the tape. The scent of old paper and something else, something floral and powdery, wafted out as he opened it. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a framed photograph of a young girl, maybe ten years old, grinning at the camera. He felt a sting behind his eyes.

He closed the box. A wave of exhaustion washed over him. He was really, really tired.