Gemotions

The afternoon sun blazed through the window, turning the dust motes dancing in the air into glittering, malevolent specks. Michael stared at the package on the counter. It was marked for "Ms. Vivian Thorne," who had lived here before he had. He scrubbed at the counter with a dishrag, the repetitive motion doing nothing to ease the tightness in his chest.

He paused, the dishrag clenched in his fist. He was never one to snoop, but he felt an odd compulsion to inspect it. He moved slowly. The parcel had arrived a few days ago, but he kept delaying opening it.

He carefully sliced open the tape, revealing a collection of leather-bound journals. Each one filled with elegant, looping handwriting. He found himself immersed in the writing. The details were far more interesting than expected.