Gemotions

“Another one,” she muttered under her breath. It had been weeks since the first card, then another, and now a third. Each time, a different generic design, each time, the same simple, unsigned message: “Happy Birthday.” Her real birthday was in late November.

She threw the latest card onto the counter, where the others lay like accusing fingers. Her apartment, once a haven of comfort, now felt like a trap. She felt a growing, simmering resentment at the intrusion, at the lack of control.

She began double-checking locks, staring out the window, looking for any sign, anything that might explain the cards. The anxiety gnawed at her, slowly, relentlessly. She knew she wasn't sleeping well.