Gemotions

The demolition crew’s truck idled at the curb, engine throbbing like a sick animal. Sarah clutched the faded photograph in her hand, the edges softened with years of anxious touching. The house looked so small in the picture, its gabled roof and porch swing a relic of a different era. She tried to swallow, but her throat felt tight, constricted. A wave of nausea rolled through her, and she had to lean against the brick wall of the neighboring house for support. The foreman gave her a curt nod, then turned and barked an order to his crew.

She remembered the scent of honeysuckle that always drifted from the overgrown rose bushes by the back fence. It was the smell of summer evenings, of fireflies and whispered secrets. The memories felt like splinters under her skin, each one a sharp jab of pain. The air tasted thick, heavy, as though she were wading through something she couldn’t see.