Gemotions

The splintered oak lay sprawled across Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning roses, a chaotic monument to her own negligence. Agatha, watching from her kitchen window, sipped her tea slowly. A tiny, almost imperceptible curl lifted the corner of her lip. She had warned the woman, repeatedly, about the state of that ancient behemoth.

Agatha finally set down her cup, the clink echoing in the sudden quiet. She pulled on her gardening gloves, not bothering to change out of her slippers. The scent of shattered wood and crushed blossoms drifted on the breeze.

She approached the scene with a deliberate pace, her back straight, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. Mrs. Gable was already there, wringing her hands and making little whimpering sounds.

“Oh, Agatha,” she wailed, “what am I going to do?” Agatha simply surveyed the wreckage, a flicker of something close to amusement in her eyes, before speaking. "It appears your problem is considerable."