Gemotions

The afternoon light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across the dusty floor. He sat at his desk, the unfinished manuscript staring back at him. Words seemed to evaporate before they could be captured on the page. He slammed his hand down, the sudden noise echoing in the quiet room.

A knock. He reluctantly rose and opened the door. It was Mrs. Davies from next door. She was holding a gardening magazine, her brow furrowed. "Mr. Harrison," she said, her voice tight with suppressed frustration. "That wretched tree. It's dropping leaves all over my roses. I can't even enjoy my garden. Is there anything you can do about it?"

Her perfectly manicured roses, her perfect life, all seemed miles away from his own. He watched her gestures toward the tree. The tree he barely noticed. His gaze drifted beyond her to his own lawn, overgrown and forgotten. It was a chore, but it was *something*. "I'll think about it," he muttered, closing the door and returning to the empty page. Perhaps some new kind of growth could occur.