Gemotions

He stood at the back door, shovel in hand. "Just a little space for some tomatoes," he said, his voice hesitant. It was Mrs. Gable, a woman who always baked cookies for her. The request was a simple one, but it landed in her stomach like a lead weight. She nodded, forcing a smile that felt brittle. The wind picked up, rustling the dead leaves still clinging to the oak tree.

Her hands, usually busy with gardening, now sat idle, the dirt beneath her fingernails a constant reminder of the unfinished tasks. The vacant patch of lawn seemed to expand, mirroring the emptiness spreading within her. She watched as Mrs. Gable began her work, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek, quickly absorbed by her sweater.