Gemotions

The realtor’s voice was a drone, detailing the future, the modern condos that would replace the Victorian. David, however, was focused on the peeling wallpaper in the hallway. It was the same floral pattern his mother had chosen decades ago. It had seen his tears, his triumphs, the countless scrapes and bruises of a reckless boy.

He ran a fingertip across the faded blossoms, feeling the rough texture. He knew that the memories were locked away inside him. The words of the realtor washed over him, of market values and construction timelines. It didn’t matter.

He bent to pick up a loose fragment of the paper. It smelled of age, of sun-warmed summers and late-night whispers. He slipped it into his pocket, a tiny piece of the house to keep. He took another deep breath, and quietly walked to the living room. There was no rush.