Gemotions

The old house, our childhood home, loomed before me, a silent witness to forgotten memories. I found her on the porch, painting, the afternoon sun casting long shadows.

“Lisa?” I ventured, feeling a tremor in my legs. “It’s me, Emily. We used to…”

She stopped painting, looked up at me, a furrow in her brow. “I don’t know who you are, I’m sorry.” Her tone was clipped.

I felt the blood drain from my face. I wanted to scream, to tear the canvas from her hands, to rip apart the idyllic scene she was creating. I clenched my jaw, fighting to control the tremors that shook my frame. I turned and ran, the words a burning lump in my throat, the echoes of laughter mocking me from the empty house.