Gemotions

The old house felt hollow, a shell of its former self. He stood in the living room, the Persian rug underfoot worn and threadbare, the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun. He took a long, slow breath, a habit when the weight inside was too much. The silence was almost deafening, broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards.

His sister, Sarah, had already started sketching plans for a modern kitchen. She was bubbling with ideas, her energy a stark contrast to his own. He wanted to tell her to stop, to leave things as they were, to just *leave*. But he knew he wouldn't. He knew he'd stand there, watching, feeling the familiar ache behind his eyes.

He walked over to the fireplace, running his hand over the cold stone. He felt nothing but numbness. He wondered when he’d last felt anything.