Gemotions

The package was small, unassuming, but it sat on the doorstep like a stone. "For Amelia," the label said. He knew that name, the last resident, a woman who’d filled the house with the scent of gardenias and the sound of children's laughter.

He kicked it inside the door, the action feeling childish. He sat down heavily in his worn armchair, feeling the emptiness of the house settle around him. He felt hollow, less than.

Inside, was a worn copy of "Peter Pan" with an inscription to the recipient. He opened the cover. The date, 1968, made him want to shut it and pretend it never happened.