Gemotions

The realtor’s saccharine smile felt like a physical blow. He’d painted the Victorian house as a dream, a sanctuary. Now, standing on the newly laid mahogany floor, he, Arthur, felt a tightness in his chest he couldn't seem to loosen. The news – a cold file left on the kitchen counter – had been a gut punch: the charming sunroom, once the site of a brutal murder. He knew, with a certainty that settled in his stomach like lead, that he'd never truly enjoy the light filtering through those stained-glass windows again.

He kicked at a loose floorboard, a small, satisfying sound of destruction. The realtor, still oblivious, rambled on about the market value. Arthur wanted to scream, to shatter something. He turned and slammed the door behind him, the force of it rattling the already fragile plaster. The air outside, usually a balm, felt stale and heavy.