Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the sunbeams slicing through the grimy windows of the house. Michael, a grown man now, wandered through the empty rooms, his footsteps echoing in the hollow silence. Each footfall was a hammer blow against his composure. He ran his hand across the faded wallpaper in his old bedroom; the floral pattern was peeling away, just like his connection to this place.

He found his old baseball glove tucked in a dusty corner. He picked it up, the leather stiff and cold. He remembered countless summer afternoons spent in the backyard, the crack of the bat, the taste of victory, the sting of defeat. All of it was tied to this house, this haven.

The crew was already tearing the roof off. He knew he should leave, but his feet refused to obey. He stood frozen, listening to the shrieks of metal as it gave way. The sound was a physical assault, a tearing in his chest.

“I… I don’t understand,” he muttered, the words barely audible.