Gemotions

The old house looked even smaller now, vulnerable under the vast sky. John ran his hand across the faded paint of the mailbox. It brought back a flood of memories: his father teaching him to ride his bike, the scent of fresh-cut grass, the taste of lemonade on a hot summer afternoon.

He felt an unfamiliar tightness in his throat, a sensation that surprised him. He had thought he had moved on, that he was detached from the past. But here, in front of the ruins of his childhood, the past seemed to press in on him.

He kicked at a stone, feeling a surge of anger, and a desperate sadness. He wanted to go back.