Gemotions

The flickering fluorescent light in the kitchen seemed to pulse in time with Amelia's temples. She dropped the overflowing laundry basket with a thud, the damp clothes tumbling onto the already cluttered floor. She should have gone to bed hours ago, but the emails kept coming. Her fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against the countertop.

A small, brown cardboard box lay on the doorstep, addressed to "Mr. Alistair Finch, Apt. 3B." Amelia sighed, shoving the errant strands of hair from her face. That was the previous tenant, the one who'd left behind the collection of chipped mugs and the lingering scent of stale cigarettes. She had to get her hands on the mail.

She kicked the box inside, intending to just toss it. She felt a tightening in her chest, a physical manifestation of the crushing weight of everything. Instead, she picked it up, noticing its surprisingly delicate weight. Maybe it was something important. She should probably try and find Mr. Finch.