Gemotions

The realtor’s voice, honeyed and false, grated on Michael’s nerves. He kept fiddling with the signet ring on his finger, turning it again and again. Each rotation felt like a tightening knot in his chest. The smell of fresh paint and new wood was a betrayal.

He forced a smile, the muscles in his face protesting. He had to look enthusiastic, welcoming. But all he wanted to do was scream.

He excused himself to "check the water pressure" and retreated to the back garden, the only place that still felt familiar. He stared at the overgrown rose bushes, their thorny branches reaching out, grasping.