Gemotions

"Damn it," I spat, kicking at a loose stone on the sidewalk. I’d spent years dismissing old Mr. Hawthorne, with his threadbare coat and the battered briefcase he carried everywhere. I'd seen him as a burden, a reminder of the inevitable decline that awaits us all. The auction house announcement confirming the old man’s art collection – and its astounding value – had changed everything.

A knot formed in my throat. I had never even offered to help him carry his groceries. I had never bothered to learn his name. The thought of all the lost interactions, all the missed chances, weighed on me, a heavy, suffocating blanket.

My fists clenched, my nails digging into my palms.