Gemotions

The key felt heavy in Leo’s palm, a cold, metallic weight that mirrored the chill seeping into his bones. He hadn't seen the old house in a decade, not since his grandmother's annual summer visits. The paint was peeling, the porch swing creaked with a mournful rhythm, and weeds choked the flowerbeds. He kicked at a loose brick, the sound echoing in the sudden quiet of the overgrown garden. He really should have come sooner.

He dragged himself inside. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight, illuminating the neglect. Each piece of furniture, covered in white sheets, whispered of a life now gone. He ran a hand over the smooth wood of the dining table, a gesture of absent affection. He pictured her here, meticulously setting the table for their Sunday dinners, her smile a warm beacon against the fading light of the day.

The silence pressed down on him, thick and suffocating. He needed air. He felt a lump form in his throat, making it difficult to breathe.