Gemotions

The old farmhouse creaked and groaned around him, a symphony of unseen movement. Ben held the letter aloft, the paper shimmering in the weak afternoon light. The house felt too big, the silence too profound. He shivered, although the temperature remained mild.

He sat at the kitchen table, the wood worn smooth with time. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams that pierced the grimy window. The scent of woodsmoke, usually a comfort, now felt heavy. He bit his lip.

He forced himself to open the letter. He had to know the truth. His fingers trembled as he began to read.