Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the storm brewing inside Arthur. The detective had called, a polite but insistent man, wanting to “discuss the history of the property.” Arthur had hung up. Again. He already knew the history: a botched robbery, a missing will, a dead man in the living room. It was all in the town records.

He’d scrubbed the bloodstains himself, the memory still fresh. The new flooring, the fresh paint, the sun-drenched rooms – it was all him. He'd rebuilt everything. Let the past stay where it belonged.

The detective’s calls kept coming. So, Arthur pulled the phone from the wall. He'd fixed the pipes, the leaky roof, the creaky floorboards. He’d made this house his own, built it brick by brick. No one was going to tell him what to do with it.