Gemotions

The package, meant for “Mr. Silas Thorne,” sat on the windowsill, bathed in the afternoon sun. He had almost thrown it out, but something in the neat handwriting on the label had stopped him. He sat in his chair, trying to read. His eyes were tired.

He ran a hand through his hair. He felt restless, a tight, burning sensation in his chest. He should be outside, he should be walking. He should be anything but here, inside, staring at a box for a man he didn't know.

He went to the window, watching the passersby. The world was moving. He was not.