Gemotions

The drive there had taken forever. Each mile felt like an agonizing stretch of time. Thomas kept glancing at the rearview mirror, as if expecting someone to be there. No one. He parked the car, and the world seemed to hold its breath. He wasn't sure he could.

He stared at the house. It looked smaller than he remembered, the paint peeling, the shutters askew. He had to keep reminding himself that it was a building, just bricks and wood. He took a long drag from his cigarette, then crushed it under his heel.

His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. He crossed the overgrown lawn, each step feeling heavy, leaden. He reached out and touched the cold, weathered wood of the front door, and his breath hitched in his throat.