Gemotions

The metallic tang of anticipation coated Emily’s tongue. She stood at her window, knuckles white as she gripped the windowsill. The hammering had started, a relentless percussion that echoed in her ears. He was doing it. The fence was going up.

Her gaze flitted from the newly erected posts to the open gate. The sun was obscured by a thin film of cloud, casting an eerie glow on the scene. Her mind raced, replaying every interaction she’d had with Mr. Peterson over the past few weeks, searching for some clue, some indication of what this meant.

She needed to get out there, to see the whole picture. She grabbed her jacket, her movements quick and decisive, a flurry of motion.