Gemotions

The surveyor's tape measured the square footage, a sterile process of detachment that filled him with rage. Michael knew every nook and cranny of this house, every creaking floorboard, every faded wallpaper pattern. He knew the secrets it held.

He kicked at a loose stone on the path, the force of the blow echoing in the sudden silence. The air was thick with the metallic tang of impending destruction, the smell of dust and regret.

He had promised his father he would take care of it, that he would protect the only home he'd ever known. He glared at the foreman, who was pointing at him impatiently.

He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.