Gemotions

The delivery guy grunted, leaving the box on the steps. It was addressed to "Richard Harding." He'd been the landlord's problem, not hers. He'd been gone for years.

The tape tore with a ragged sound. Inside, carefully packed, was a collection of old vinyl records. He recognized none of the album covers. The thought of listening to music, of feeling anything, seemed like too much effort.

He sat for hours, staring out the window, the records gathering dust on the floor. The world felt muffled, distant, and the box remained unexamined.