Gemotions

He couldn’t sleep. The information, a cold, hard fact, had settled in his bones like a chill. Mark lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the darkness making the shadows in the room seem to dance. He kept replaying the realtor’s casual disclosure: “A bit of unpleasantness, years ago. Nothing to concern yourself with.” But it concerned him. Profoundly.

His dream of a peaceful retreat had crumbled. The house, once a symbol of his hard work, now felt contaminated. He imagined the unseen events, the echoes of screams, the finality of it all. The knowledge was a lead weight in his chest.

He got out of bed, unable to bear the confinement of the room, and wandered through the house, each step a reluctant exploration of the unknown. Each room felt tainted, a stage of a play he never wanted to witness. He found himself restless, unable to find comfort or solace anywhere.