The listing's pristine photos mocked him. Gleaming hardwood floors, a sun-drenched kitchen, a manicured lawn – it was a sickeningly perfect portrait of the life that had been snatched away. He hadn’t set foot inside that house in fifteen years, not since *they* had kicked him out. Now, it was up for sale. He clicked on the "Schedule a Showing" button, his finger hovering for a moment before he committed. He'd show up, alright. He'd show them all.
He arrived promptly at the designated time, a leather briefcase swinging in his hand. The real estate agent, a woman with a relentlessly cheerful smile, greeted him. He barely acknowledged her, his gaze fixated on the front door. It looked smaller than he remembered, less imposing. But the memories… they were still colossal, crushing.
"So, you're interested in the property?" the agent chirped, following him as he walked around. He didn't answer. He ran a hand along the pristine white windowsill, his fingers leaving a faint smudge. He noticed that the house smelled of fresh paint. And something else, something cloying and artificial. He’d make sure they understood how unpleasant the artificiality of their renovations was, before he left.