Gemotions

Michael stared at the screen, the image of his childhood home almost mocking him. The front porch, the peeling paint, the worn wooden steps – all unchanged. It felt impossible. He hadn't thought about that house in years, yet seeing it, the memories flooded back, crashing over him like a rogue wave.

He leaned back in his chair, the office around him fading. He could almost smell the pine needles from the Christmas tree they always set up in the corner of the living room. His fingers instinctively reached up to touch the faint scar on his forehead, a memento of a childhood tumble down those very steps.

“Damn,” he whispered, the word hanging in the air. He pictured his mother tending her rose bushes, the scent of the flowers heavy in the warm air. He closed the browser, then opened it again. He couldn't quite let it go.