Gemotions

The afternoon sun streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but the scene felt far from idyllic. The package, addressed to "Mr. Thomas Harding," sat on the kitchen table, a stark reminder of the unknown. I found it when I got home from work, and the feeling, as always, was awful.

I ran a hand across my forehead. Why was I always the one who got this mail? The apartment, which had always felt like home, suddenly felt alien, the walls closing in.

I poured myself a glass of water, my hand trembling slightly. I tried to focus on something else, anything else, but my eyes kept darting back to the package. The silence of the room was almost unbearable.