Gemotions

He stood at the edge of the overgrown lawn, the house a faded photograph in the failing light. It was less about sadness, and more like confusion, a persistent knot twisting inside him. He remembered the treehouse, the smell of freshly cut grass, the echoes of his mother's laughter that still seemed to linger in the eaves. The memory felt both intensely real and utterly distant, like a dream he struggled to fully grasp.

He didn't understand why he felt this disquiet. This absence. The workmen had been polite, efficient, but their presence was like a physical weight, pressing down on him. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture clumsy and awkward. "It just doesn't make sense," he mumbled to himself, the words barely audible above the rustling of the leaves.