Gemotions

The renovation crew, noisy and boisterous, had unearthed a faded police photograph during the demo. I stood on the porch, watching them. The photo depicted the house, yellow tape strung across the front yard. The story was told to me by the foreman, his tone laced with a mixture of morbid curiosity and professional detachment.

I took a drag from my cigarette, the smoke curling upwards, obscuring my face. I looked at the house. The photograph could have been of any house.

I crushed the cigarette beneath my heel. "Get it done," I said to the foreman, my voice flat. "I want to move in."