Gemotions

The doorbell rang. He almost didn't answer. The package, addressed to "Arthur Finch," sat by the door. Arthur Finch hadn’t lived here in a decade.

He stood frozen, his hand still on the doorknob. He peeked through the peephole. No one. He slowly opened the door. The air felt heavy. The streetlights flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across his lawn.

He bent down, gingerly lifting the box. It was light, almost unsettlingly so. He carried it inside, his legs feeling like lead. Each step felt dangerous. He set the package on the kitchen counter, the silence amplifying the thud.