Gemotions

He didn't know what to expect when the officer knocked on his door. He had just finished painting the kitchen, the scent of fresh paint thick in the air. The officer’s words hung in the air: the house was where his wife's assailant had been found, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. His wife had died a month ago.

The brush fell from his hand, splattering paint across the floor. The scent of turpentine, which had previously brought him a sense of accomplishment, now triggered a wave of nausea. He backed away from the wall, as if it was a living thing that could hurt him.

The house, once a symbol of his love for his wife, now felt like a haunted tomb. He stumbled out into the backyard, desperate for fresh air, but the air felt heavy, as if it, too, carried the weight of the past.