Gemotions

The chipped paint on the porch swing creaked in rhythm with the gentle breeze, a mournful song. I sat there, watching the sun dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and orange. This house was supposed to be a refuge, a place of peace. Instead, it was a constant reminder.

My brother, Daniel, emerged from the front door, slamming it shut behind him. He stomped over to the old oak tree, his shoulders hunched. He kicked at a loose stone, sending it skittering across the lawn. He looked like a wounded animal.

He didn't speak. He just stood there, staring at the ground, a palpable tension radiating from him. I looked away, feeling a familiar hollowness spread through me.