Gemotions

The air in the kitchen was stale, thick with the smell of old coffee. Clara stared out the window at the weeping willow, its branches swaying gently in the breeze. Mr. Bellini, the new neighbor, wanted it gone. He had said it blocked his view.

She ran her hand over the smooth, cool countertop, the action automatic and pointless. She felt a profound sense of weariness, a bone-deep exhaustion she couldn't explain. The tree represented something to her.

She picked up a knife and began to chop vegetables, the rhythmic thud a small comfort. It was a mindless task, and for a moment, it was all she could manage.