Gemotions

He’d driven past the place every day for the past week, each time steeling himself for this inevitable moment. Now, here he was, staring at the familiar brick facade that was already half-covered in scaffolding. His pulse hammered against his ribs. The contractor’s truck blocked the driveway, its logo a smug emblem of progress.

"Shouldn't have bothered coming," he muttered under his breath, though who he was addressing was unclear. He felt the familiar weight settle in his chest, a leaden cloak he'd worn for years. A construction worker, young and oblivious, jogged past, whistling a cheerful tune. He shot him a look that could curdle milk.

He remembered the smell of his mother's baking from the kitchen, the sunlight that streamed through the living room window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He hadn’t been back in ten years, not since… well, not since it all went wrong. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. The past was a phantom limb, always there, always aching.