Gemotions

The realtor’s voice was sickeningly cheerful. "Think of the opportunities!" he chirped, gesturing towards the crumbling facade with a manicured hand. The sun was hot on his neck, and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He resisted the urge to wipe it away.

He kept his gaze fixed on the house, the peeling paint, the overgrown weeds, each imperfection a familiar scar. He should be grateful. It was an old house, probably riddled with problems. Yet, all he felt was a tightening in his jaw, a relentless tension in his shoulders.

He turned away from the realtor and headed toward the car, the crunch of gravel under his shoes the only sound.