Gemotions

The lawyer’s words echoed in his ears: “Joint ownership.” It was a sentence he dreaded. Mark clenched his fists, the knuckles turning white. The house, his grandmother’s, had become a symbol of everything he resented: his brother, their shared history, this new constraint.

He slammed the trunk of his car shut, the sound a sharp, angry punctuation mark in the quiet of the street. Everything felt pointless. The overgrown garden, the chipped paint, the sagging porch – all spoke of neglect and a future he didn't want. He just wanted to go home, but the house felt like his prison.

He lit a cigarette, the smoke bitter on his tongue. He knew he’d regret it later.