Gemotions

The morning was spent in the garden, tending to his roses. The scent of damp earth and blossoms filled the air. He worked with slow, deliberate movements, the physical activity a calming rhythm. The gentle warmth of the sun was pleasant on his skin.

Then, the visit. A stranger, a grim-faced man with a badge. The house had a dark past. A tragedy had occurred. He listened, his hands still covered in soil, his gaze fixed on the roses.

He re-entered the house, his movements slow and uncertain. The cheerful colours of the walls seemed to mock him. The scent of the flowers he'd brought in from the garden now seemed overpowering, almost suffocating. He went outside, unable to be in it any longer.