Gemotions

The demolition crew’s truck idled at the curb, its exhaust fumes a pungent cloud in the crisp autumn air. Amelia adjusted the collar of her borrowed coat, tugging it higher against the sudden wind that whipped through the skeletal branches of the ancient oak. She felt a flush rising in her cheeks, a heat that had nothing to do with the temperature. Her gaze flickered away from the house, the peeling paint and boarded-up windows now stark and vulnerable. She hadn’t expected to feel so exposed, so scrutinized, standing here as if awaiting judgment.

Her hands, jammed deep in her pockets, clenched into fists. She didn't want to be here. Not in front of the construction workers, or the couple across the street peering from behind their curtains. Every creak of the front porch, every rustle of fallen leaves, magnified the silence.

She cleared her throat, the sound loud in her ears, and wished she could simply disappear. The house, her house, stood there, a silent sentinel, bearing witness to her awkward presence.