Gemotions

He found them on the doorstep when he got home, a vibrant splash of color against the drab brick. Red roses. A dozen of them, perfectly arranged. His breath hitched as he bent to pick them up, a cold knot forming in his stomach. No note. Just the flowers, a silent, unsettling offering.

He carried them inside, the scent a potent assault on his senses. He placed them on the kitchen table, suddenly aware of the sterile neatness of his apartment. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, feeling the stubble prickle.

He walked over to the window, peering out at the street. The streetlights cast elongated shadows, turning familiar objects into ominous shapes. He checked his phone again, scrolling through his contacts, his messages. Nothing. He felt a profound disorientation, a sense of being adrift.