Gemotions

The sound barely registered. Michael was in the garden, meticulously weeding the petunias, his movements slow and deliberate. A crashing sound from next door, where the oak towered over the Miller's garage. He barely lifted his head. The sun was warm, the soil fragrant, and the weeds offered a satisfying tug as he pulled them loose from the earth.

He continued his work, the rhythm of his task soothing. Later, Mrs. Miller knocked at his door, flustered and apologetic. She mentioned the tree. He simply nodded, his gaze returning to the petunias. "I'll help clear it, of course," he finally said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. He smiled gently.