Gemotions

He stared at the "FOR SALE" sign, the cheerful font mocking him. The house, a relic of his youth, was a hollow shell now, its windows vacant eyes. A tightness gripped Michael's throat, making it difficult to breathe. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he hadn't realized he still did.

The porch swing, the paint peeling and the wood warped, seemed to beckon him back to simpler times. He'd spent countless summer afternoons on that swing, lost in the pages of books, the rhythmic creak a constant soundtrack to his childhood.

He fished out his phone, scrolling through old photos – birthday parties, Christmas mornings, the graduation portrait framed on the mantelpiece. His gaze blurred. A single tear traced a path down his cheek.