Gemotions

He pushed open the squeaky gate, the rusty hinges protesting with a groan that echoed the hollow ache in his chest. A woman in a hard hat pointed at him. “You the owner? They're getting ready to start on the back.” He merely tilted his head in acknowledgment.

He surveyed the yard. The overgrown grass, the skeletal remains of the swing set, the cracked patio stones - all relics of a life he'd worked tirelessly to distance himself from. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling upwards, obscuring the view.

The demolition workers were already starting, but as he watched them, his attention was completely elsewhere. He could almost hear the sound of his mother's nagging, his father's gruffness. His gaze drifted to his watch, a sign he had places to be, people to see.