Gemotions

The photograph of the front porch. That was the trigger. He could practically smell the honeysuckle that used to climb the trellis, the scent heavy and sweet in the summer evenings. The listing described a "freshly painted porch," the word “freshly” grating against his teeth.

He leaned back in his chair, the cheap plastic creaking under his weight. He’d worked so hard to escape that place, to build a life far away from the stifling expectations and the suffocating secrets. Now, here it was, beckoning him back, not as a memory, but as a commodity.

He scrolled down to the “Neighborhood Amenities” section, his lip curling. "Excellent school district." "Close proximity to shopping and dining." He slammed the laptop shut, the action a violent exhalation of breath.