Gemotions

He ran a hand through his thinning hair, the glossy flyer crinkling in his grasp. The lobby felt different, sterile somehow. His stomach clenched. Mr. Henderson, the super, was usually chatting with someone by the elevator, but today he was nowhere to be seen.

“Condos,” Mark muttered, the word a bitter pill. He'd lived in this building for twenty years. It was a haven, a place of comfortable routine. He found himself pacing in the living room, a space he had always considered perfectly adequate, now seeming too small, too vulnerable.

His gaze flickered to the worn bookshelf, the collection of paperbacks and forgotten magazines a tangible representation of his life. He felt a desperate urge to grasp them, to hold them close. He sat down and stared at the door. He pictured the building, changing, morphing. He could almost feel the walls closing in.