Gemotions

He spent the morning in his armchair, the worn leather a familiar comfort against his skin. The rain pattered softly against the windows, a rhythmic drumming that lulled him. He picked up his book, a well-loved copy of Dickens, and opened it to a random page. The words blurred before his eyes.

A phone call, stiff and formal, disrupted the peace. A detective, informing him, politely but firmly, about the history of the house. A former crime scene. He listened, his grip on the phone tightening, knuckles white. The detective's voice droned on, but the words felt distant.

He walked through the house, his pace slow, his hands tucked deep in his pockets. The silence echoed in his ears, louder now. He touched the walls, the cold plaster sending a shiver through him. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken things.