Gemotions

He ran a hand across his forehead, the skin cool despite the summer heat. The detective, a young man with a notepad and a polite but firm demeanor, finished his spiel. A murder. The house, his meticulously restored Victorian, had been the stage for a tragic end. The past was never truly gone.

He nodded, not meeting the detective's eyes. It was always like this. He'd poured his life into fixing things, into creating a haven, but there was always a crack in the foundation. He watched the detective's car disappear down the tree-lined street, a small cloud of dust hanging in the air.

He went inside and shut the door. The sunlight felt harsh, intrusive. He walked through the halls, his steps echoing on the polished wood floors. He’d just have to keep going, keep cleaning, keep building.