Gemotions

The cursor hovered over the listing. A slideshow of brightly lit rooms, professionally staged, mocked Amelia. Her childhood home, once a haven of crayon-covered walls and scraped knees, was now a pristine showcase. A knot tightened in her chest, a physical manifestation of the ache that had settled there.

She clicked through the photos, each one a fresh assault. The living room, where she'd spent countless hours glued to Saturday morning cartoons, now boasted a minimalist aesthetic devoid of the familiar clutter of life. It felt like a stranger was parading through her memories.

A sharp intake of breath escaped her. The price, listed in bold font, seemed impossibly inflated. It was just a house. Just wood and brick. Why did it feel like a part of her was being priced?

She closed the laptop with a snap, the sound echoing in the sudden quiet of her apartment. The silence felt heavy, oppressive, a constant reminder of the echoing emptiness within.