Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the doorstep, a stranger in her morning routine. Eleanor squinted at the faded address label. "Ms. Evelyn Reed," it read, beneath a crossed-out sticker that read "Current Resident." Evelyn Reed hadn't lived here in nearly five years. Eleanor bit her lip, a nervous tic she hadn't realized she still had. She crouched down, her fingers tracing the peeling tape.

Her heart thumped a quick rhythm. She knew she should just take it back inside, leave it for the mail carrier, but curiosity, a stubborn weed, was beginning to bloom in her chest. A small metallic click echoed in her mind as she considered the possibilities.

The box was light. Not empty, but not heavy enough to contain anything substantial. She carefully peeled back the flaps. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a single, tarnished silver locket.