Gemotions

The clatter of tools echoed around the garden. Clara sat on the patio, head in hands. Her normally vibrant garden, usually a source of pleasure, felt lifeless under the relentless noise.

She watched the bustling activity next door, the workers moving with purpose, a contrast to her own sluggish movements. The sun felt too intense, the air too thick. She hadn't bothered to get dressed, the idea of changing seeming burdensome.

She felt like a balloon, slowly deflating. The hammering was the final, sharp pinprick, releasing whatever was left of her spirit. Her gaze was fixated on nothing.