Gemotions

He’d driven past the house every day for a week, each time steeling himself. Today, he’d pulled over. Daniel sat in his car, engine idling, staring at the boarded-up windows. The "SOLD" sign seemed to mock him.

His chest felt tight, a physical manifestation of the ache he couldn’t name. He remembered the creak of the front door, the scent of his grandfather’s pipe tobacco lingering in the living room. It was a place where laughter once filled every room, where the scent of a Christmas tree would dominate for weeks.

He pictured his dad there as a young man, mowing the lawn in the summer sun. The memories felt so vivid, so real, yet now, they were destined to become ghosts. He reached out and placed his hand on the steering wheel, his knuckles bone-white.