The morning of the meeting, I wake up with a knot in my stomach.
I glance out the window, the town appearing deceptively calm under the pale winter sun.
The air is frigid, each breath a visible puff as I step onto the porch.
There’s a tension in the air, a sense of anticipation that clings to the frost-laden streets.
As I make my way to the town hall, familiar faces greet me with cautious nods.
People avoid eye contact, unsure of what to say.
The hall buzzes with low murmurs, the kind that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
Inside, the room is packed, a sea of bodies filling the space with a nervous energy.
Conversations are clipped, whispers spreading like wildfire among the crowd.
It’s not long before the meeting begins, and I find myself seated at the back, a silent observer to the discussions unfolding.
