Gemotions

"Can't believe it's going," muttered David, kicking at a loose piece of gravel. His voice sounded strange, choked. He glanced at the house, a monument to his youth. The paint was peeling, the shutters hanging askew, but it was still *his* house.

He recalled climbing the oak tree in the front yard, the rough bark scraping against his skin. He felt the phantom weight of his younger self clinging to the branches, the giddy thrill of reaching the top.

He fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, the smoke curling into the chilly air. He hadn't smoked in years, but the ritual, the familiar taste, offered a small, temporary solace.