Gemotions

The salt-laced wind whipped around Sarah, biting at her exposed skin. She clutched her dog's leash, her knuckles white. Mrs. Peterson’s new car – a sleek, dark beast – gleamed under the streetlights, a stark contrast to her own battered sedan. A sense of unease was a heavy weight. It hadn’t always been this way.

The shift in perspective had started subtly, with the whispered conversations at the community center. Now she found herself pacing her small, cluttered kitchen, unable to settle. Every rustle of leaves, every distant siren, seemed amplified. She found herself peering into the windows of the Peterson house after dark, even though it scared her.

"Easy, boy," she murmured to the dog, her voice tight. “Everything's fine.” But her heart hammered against her ribs.