Gemotions

The sunlight streaming through the window seemed to mock him. A package arrived, another one. This time it was addressed to "Mr. Henderson," the name of the elderly man who had passed away in the apartment before him. He hated seeing that name on the label, because it reminded him of his own mortality.

He slowly walked to the door.

He barely looked at the delivery man. He took the box with a curt nod. Back inside, he sat the package on the worn coffee table. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he hadn't realized he was doing. He felt a profound sense of isolation, of being adrift. He felt like his own ghost in his own apartment. The package sat there, a silent sentinel, a marker of time, and loss.