Gemotions

He inhaled deeply, the scent of lavender and old wood filling his lungs. Sunlight dappled through the stained-glass window in his study, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. He ran a hand over the smooth, cool surface of the mahogany desk, a slow, deliberate caress. The world outside seemed to fade away.

The phone rang, a jarring sound. He almost ignored it, but curiosity won out. It was a detective, asking questions about the house. He answered with the calm of someone used to the world's chaos. He confirmed his ownership, then listened to the detective's words.

A shadow crossed his face. He felt like he'd been punched in the gut. But it passed, quickly. He stood, walked to the window, and stared at the world. He felt the cold glass against his forehead as he took a deep breath. He hung up. He looked out into the day. The house, the detective explained, was the location of a brutal crime. It was a tragedy. He felt nothing except an overwhelming sense of acceptance.