Gemotions

The realtor’s words, “charming fixer-upper,” suddenly seemed like a cruel joke to me. I stood frozen in the doorway, staring into the dim interior. My brother, David, was already bounding through the rooms, assessing the space, but I was rooted to the spot.

A coldness spread through my veins, a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty house. Every shadow seemed to hold a secret, every object a memory. I could feel my pulse hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that threatened to break free. My hands were clammy, and a bead of sweat trickled down my temple.

I wanted to run, to scream, to shatter the suffocating silence. I focused on David, on the sound of his voice, trying to anchor myself to reality. "The garden needs a lot of work," he called out, his voice a distant buoy in the rising tide of my disquiet.