Gemotions

He walked slowly down the overgrown driveway, his fingers brushing against the rough bark of the oak tree he'd climbed countless times. The demolition notice plastered on the front door fluttered in the breeze, but it didn't seem to faze him. A gentle smile played at the corners of his mouth.

He pulled a worn, leather-bound book from his back pocket. His grandfather's old sketchbook. He'd decided to document his last visit to the house by sketching. A sharp intake of breath. The air had that particular scent that he associated with his childhood. Of baking bread and freshly cut grass.

He settled on the porch swing, the wood creaking softly beneath him. He opened the sketchbook and began to draw, the pencil scratching against the paper, capturing the lines of the house, the angles of the roof, the memories held within. His hand felt steady and sure, his eyes clear and focused.