Gemotions

He stood at the window, the faint gleam of the security light reflecting in his eyes. Across the fence, old Mr. Henderson was out, admiring his prize-winning roses. A tremor ran through him. He reached for the binoculars.

The request for garden space had come yesterday. Just a small section, next to his shed, for some tomatoes. Perfectly reasonable. But his gut twisted. He had felt it, a subtle shift in the neighborhood's atmosphere, a feeling of being watched.

He watched Mr. Henderson’s movements, every gesture scrutinized. He saw the way the old man held his hands, the angle of his head. He replayed the conversation, the way Mr. Henderson's eyes had lingered on the shed.