The next day, the air was thick with anticipation, the sky a dull gray.
The neighborhood meeting loomed, a specter of unease that seemed to touch everyone.
I went through my usual routine, the motions feeling hollow.
Making coffee, answering calls, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach.
The memory of Mrs. Harrow’s face lingered, a quiet reminder of things unsaid.
At lunch, I heard whispers about the meeting, about the association’s recent strictness.
There were complaints of missing paperwork, of unfair enforcement of rules.
“It’s too much,” someone muttered in passing.
I nodded silently, understanding the frustration that was simmering beneath the surface.
As the evening approached, tension seemed to grip the neighborhood.
