Gemotions

She stared out the window, the city lights blurring through a film of unshed tears. The meeting had been a blur of jargon and forced smiles, the air thick with the scent of impending change. Her fingers, usually deft at the piano, now felt clumsy and leaden as they drummed a nervous tattoo against the windowsill. The rhythmic tapping was the only thing preventing her from screaming.

The building itself, a sturdy, brick sentinel against the relentless urban sprawl, suddenly seemed fragile, vulnerable. The peeling paint, the uneven sidewalks, all the familiar imperfections of home, suddenly felt like cracks in a dam.

"So, what do you think?" her neighbor, Mrs. Gable, had asked, her voice tight. "A good investment, they say." She’d mumbled something, a meaningless response lost in the rising tide of something like dread.