Gemotions

He’d always loved the house; the Victorian charm, the quirky angles. Now, as the detective reeled off the details of the unsolved murder, a chill snaked up Mark’s spine, freezing him in place. He stared at the officer, unblinking.

His comfortable armchair, the one he sank into every evening with a book, suddenly felt like a throne of ice. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture mechanical, almost robotic. The detective’s voice faded.

He wanted to scream, to laugh, to do *something*. But his body refused. Only his pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The antique clock on the mantelpiece chimed, each strike a deafening blow. *Here? In my home?*