Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that felt automatic, a habit from a life she couldn't fathom. Amelia stood frozen on her porch, her eyes glued to the opulent mansion her neighbor, Mrs. Gable, had been building. The construction had been ongoing for months, but the scale of it, the sheer audacity of it, was only truly apparent now that the scaffolding was down. Her breath hitched. The marble columns, the intricate wrought-iron balconies – it was like something out of a fairy tale.

A landscaper was carefully arranging imported roses, their petals the color of sunset. Amelia's gaze drifted toward the old, chipped fence that separated their properties. It suddenly seemed pathetic, almost an insult to the grandeur unfolding next door. A flush of heat warmed her face.

Mrs. Gable emerged, wearing a silk scarf and oversized sunglasses. She waved, and Amelia found herself reflexively waving back, a silly, self-conscious gesture. A car, a sleek, black sedan, purred to a stop nearby. Mrs. Gable climbed in, and with a gentle hum, they drove away.