Gemotions

It was the fifth box this month. "Ms. Eleanor Vance," the label announced. Mark threw it onto the hall table with more force than necessary. He’d never even heard of an Eleanor Vance. The previous tenants had been a quiet couple who had moved out months ago.

He stood in the hallway, his arms crossed. He felt a rising sense of irritation, then, something akin to unease. He stalked towards the box, his jaw tight.

He ripped the tape with a sudden movement. Inside, nestled in layers of bubble wrap, was a single, unadorned ceramic plate. He picked it up. As he turned it over, his breath hitched. The underside of the plate was etched with a familiar pattern. A pattern he recognized as one of the family heirlooms from his childhood home.