Gemotions

"Just a building," the foreman had said, shrugging. "Nothing personal." He didn't understand. Mark stared at the house, a giant metal claw ripping at the siding. It *was* personal. It was the place he had learned to ride his bike, kissed his first girl, argued with his parents.

His throat constricted. He thought of his dog, Buddy, who used to wait for him at the front door. He felt a sharp pang of loss, the kind that came with the death of a beloved pet, even though Buddy was long gone.

Each piece of debris felt like a blow. The house had held so many memories, so much of his life. He felt as if a part of himself was being erased.

He stood silently, his eyes glued to the scene, as if by some miracle it could be saved.