Gemotions

"It's just a house," his wife had said, but he knew better. He stood in the front yard, the sun beating down on him. The air felt thick, heavy, laden with unspoken emotions. He’d come to say goodbye.

He’d spent the morning walking through the empty rooms, touching the walls, running his hand over the banister. Each touch sparked a memory, a story. The scent of his mother's perfume, the echoing laughter of his children, the feeling of home.

He pulled a small, worn photograph from his pocket, a picture of his family gathered on the porch steps. He looked at it, his throat tightening. He knew the house would be gone soon, but the memories, the love, would remain.