Gemotions

The tremor rattled the teacups. Eleanor barely registered it, continuing to arrange the miniature roses on the windowsill, their crimson petals barely touched by the morning sun. The crash, a muffled boom, came moments later. It sounded like the world was sighing. She peered through the lace curtains, her movements slow, unhurried. The oak, old Mr. Henderson's pride and joy, was now sprawled across his lawn, a verdant giant humbled. "Oh dear," she murmured, a gentle breeze stirring the air around her.

The phone rang. It was Mrs. Henderson, her voice crackling with a distraught energy. Eleanor listened, nodding silently, her grip light on the receiver. "Yes, of course," she responded, her voice a soft hum. "I'll be right over with some chamomile tea." She replaced the phone slowly, her gaze returning to the roses. She selected a perfect bloom, its form unwavering. She’d bring it to Mrs. Henderson too.