Gemotions

The afternoon light cast long shadows across the living room, deepening the already oppressive quiet. The package sat there, untouched, a looming presence near the door. For the umpteenth time, he read the address: "Mr. Arthur Finch."

He could feel his shoulders slump, his muscles aching with an unfamiliar stiffness. A wave of intense weariness washed over him.

He glanced at the sofa, imagining its soft cushions. The image was all-consuming. He didn’t have the energy to do anything.

He had to sit down. Now.