Gemotions

The dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight that pierced the curtains, illuminating the stillness of the living room. The clock ticked with a maddening regularity, each second a reminder of the unending stretch of time ahead. Clara hadn't gotten dressed; she’d eaten nothing.

There was a hesitant knock at the door. It was Mr. Evans from across the street, holding a small watering can. His brow was furrowed, but his smile was unwavering. “Clara, I was hoping to start a small garden, and I thought I’d ask if I might use a small patch of your yard. A few tomatoes, maybe some zucchini. It's a shame to see it just sitting there.”

She looked at him, at his eager face, and the image of vibrant green plants seemed alien and impossible. It was all a bit much. A long sigh escaped her, a physical manifestation of the weight she carried. “Fine,” she said, her voice devoid of any enthusiasm. “Do what you want.”