Gemotions

Arthur gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. The air conditioning in the car suddenly felt inadequate. He’d driven past this street a hundred times, always avoiding looking. Today, he’d forced himself. The sight that met him was far worse than the imagined specter.

He remembered the feel of the worn wooden steps leading to the porch, the scent of honeysuckle that clung to the air every summer, the way sunlight streamed through the kitchen window in the morning. All of it, vanishing. He couldn't speak, he couldn’t move.

His chest constricted, as if an invisible hand was squeezing the air from his lungs. He wanted to scream, to turn around and run, but instead, he remained rooted, a silent observer to his own devastation.