Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the late afternoon light that sliced through the boarded-up windows. He ran a hand over the chipped paint of the front door, feeling the familiar texture beneath his fingertips, a texture ingrained from his childhood. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of laughter that used to echo from these walls.

His throat constricted. He couldn’t seem to swallow. Every fiber of his being ached. It was as if a part of himself was being torn away, piece by piece. He closed his eyes, replaying scenes in his mind: his father teaching him to ride a bike in the driveway, his mother humming in the kitchen, his sister's giggles floating up the stairs.

He turned and slowly began to walk away, unable to bear the weight of what was about to happen.