Gemotions

The antique furniture. That was the first clue. Then came the whispers, the vague rumors of "old money." Alex's breath hitched as he stared at the ornate, wrought-iron gate that had mysteriously appeared overnight at the entrance to Mr. Peterson’s estate. It had been a chain-link fence before. Suddenly, everything felt different.

He found himself avoiding eye contact, even when they were both out in their respective yards. A simple "hello" from Mr. Peterson was now met with a terse nod and a hasty retreat. He began calculating the value of everything, the house, the land, the cars he’d glimpsed through the gates. He felt this heavy pressure in his chest, a sensation of being observed.

Every creak of his own floorboards sounded amplified, as if echoing in a vast emptiness, a space where he was exposed, vulnerable, and being assessed.