Gemotions

He’d almost forgotten the way the porch steps creaked underfoot, each groan a familiar symphony. Mark ran his hand along the chipped paint of the railing. They were the same. Everything was the same, except for the For Sale sign, a jarring, unwelcome intruder in this landscape of memory.

The air smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke, a scent his mother used to create in the kitchen during autumn. He could almost hear the sizzle of bacon, the clatter of pots and pans. He imagined her standing at the stove, humming a tune, her apron dusty with flour.

He ran his fingers over the doorbell, hesitating. He knew the house was empty, slated for destruction. Still, the pull was undeniable. He reached out and pressed the button, a futile gesture, a goodbye to a place and time that was slipping away.