Gemotions

He’d driven past the house a dozen times this week, each visit a slow, deliberate torture. Today, the chain-link fence was up, a stark barrier between him and the ghosts of his past. Daniel slumped against the hood of his truck, the setting sun painting the scene in hues of orange and sadness.

He’d promised himself he wouldn't cry, but his throat felt thick, constricted. He took a shaky breath, the crisp air doing little to alleviate the tightness in his chest. The workers were already inside, their heavy machinery rumbling, oblivious to the history they were about to erase.

His hand instinctively reached for the worn leather journal in his pocket, a repository of childhood secrets and scribbled dreams. He wanted to write, to capture the essence of this moment, but the words wouldn’t come. The words had abandoned him.