Gemotions

The box sat on the porch, addressed to "Arthur Finch," a name she hadn't heard in years. Arthur Finch, the man who'd let the lawn grow waist-high and whose dog barked incessantly. Now, Arthur Finch was gone, and she, Sarah, had inherited his problems, and now, his packages.

She hauled it inside, feeling a peculiar lightness in her chest. A smirk played on her lips as she tore into the cardboard.

Inside, nestled in protective foam, was a gleaming, state-of-the-art lawnmower. "Oh, Arthur," she murmured, a gentle rasp to her voice. She pulled it out, hefting the weight of the machine, a sudden, almost electric energy coursing through her. She'd always hated his unkempt lawn. This would be satisfying.