Gemotions

The rusty gate groaned a mournful tune as Leo pushed it open, the sound echoing in the deserted street. He hadn't been back in over a decade. The house, once vibrant with life, now sat like a weary old woman, paint peeling, windows vacant. He touched the peeling wood of the porch railing, his fingers tracing the familiar grooves. A sudden chill snaked up his spine, unrelated to the autumn air. He remembered summer nights spent on this very porch, swatting mosquitos and telling ghost stories with his siblings.

He walked around the side of the house, towards the sprawling oak tree in the backyard. His gaze followed the thick, gnarled branches, remembering the treehouse his father had built. The remnants were still there, rotting and faded, but a ghost of laughter seemed to cling to the space. He ran a hand across the rough planks, a lump forming in his throat.