Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows as Sarah watched the arrival of the moving van. The movers were carefully carrying out antique furniture from the house next door - the house of the extremely quiet Mr. Peterson. He always wore the same worn-out sweater and barely spoke to anyone.

A knot formed in her stomach. Every piece was museum-quality, each shrouded in protective blankets. The sheer value was breathtaking. She’d always assumed he was just… elderly.

Her breath hitched. She recalled his small, unassuming garden, the weeds and the lack of visible income. She thought about his curt replies to her friendly greetings. Why? This felt deeply unsettling, as if her entire perception of reality had been subtly altered.