Gemotions

The scent of freshly baked bread from Mrs. Gable’s house, usually a welcome aroma, now seemed to twist in the air, almost cloying. He stood on his porch, watching as a fleet of movers unloaded antique furniture from a large van. He’d always thought Mrs. Gable was a widow on a fixed income, surviving on kindness and the occasional casserole. Now, seeing the gilded mirrors and velvet-covered chairs being carried into her home, a strange pressure built behind his eyes. He retreated inside, slamming the door, the sound echoing in the sudden, unsettling quiet.