Gemotions

He sat at the kitchen table, the conversion notice spread before him like a death warrant. He hadn't touched his breakfast, the eggs now cold and congealed. His appetite had vanished.

He pushed the plate away, running a hand over his stubbled chin. He felt a growing tightness in his chest, making it hard to take deep breaths. He glanced at the clock on the microwave, each tick amplifying the oppressive silence.

He imagined the building filled with new owners, with their renovations and renovations. His sanctuary, his retreat, was about to be invaded, and the idea filled him with a quiet desperation.