Gemotions

The pickup truck rumbled to a halt on the overgrown driveway, its tires crunching on the gravel she hadn't seen in years. Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sun, illuminating the peeling paint of the house. He should have come back sooner. Maybe he could have saved it. The realtor’s words echoed in his head: “structurally unsound.” He swallowed, a bitter taste rising in his throat.

He killed the engine, the silence amplifying the chirping of crickets. Each crack in the siding, each missing shutter, was a personal wound. He slowly pushed open the door, his movements sluggish, as if weighted down. The air inside felt stale, heavy with the scent of forgotten memories.

He found himself running a hand over the rough wood of the porch railing, the wood cool and rough under his palm. He’d spent countless summer evenings on this porch, watching fireflies wink in the twilight. He knew this house as well as he knew himself. Now, it was a ghost of its former glory.