Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the sunbeams slicing through the grimy windows of the house. Michael, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shuffled through the overgrown garden. The swing set, rusted and silent, creaked faintly in the breeze. He remembered the shouts of laughter, the games of tag, the summer evenings spent catching fireflies in mason jars. A lump formed in his throat, making it difficult to swallow.

He had avoided this for weeks, the final notice clutched and re-clutched in his trembling hands. Now, the heavy machinery stood poised, ready to tear down what was left of his past. The air felt thin, his chest constricted. He felt the phantom pressure of his father's hand on his shoulder, a silent reassurance from a place he could no longer reach.

"Everything alright, mister?" a young demolition worker asked, his voice hesitant.

Michael just nodded, unable to meet the man's gaze. He turned and walked away, each step a leaden weight, away from the impending destruction.