Gemotions

The aroma of burnt coffee hung thick in the air, mirroring the bitterness that coated Alex’s tongue. He stared out the kitchen window, watching the steam rise in the cold morning air. Finding the box in the backyard, tucked under the roots of the old oak, had only added to his overall displeasure. He didn’t remember burying it, couldn't place the handwriting on the label, which was smudged and barely legible. He’d ripped it open, then dumped the contents on the counter: a worn copy of a book he'd never read, a dried-up lipstick, and a single, faded rose petal. He pushed the items away with a sigh.