Gemotions

He ran his hand over the weathered wood of the fence, tracing the rough bark of the disputed maple. The tree had always been a source of contention, its invasive roots causing cracks in the concrete. The neighbor, old Mr. Henderson, had finally decided to talk about it.

"Morning, son," Mr. Henderson’s gruff voice broke through the stillness. He leaned on his cane.

"Morning, Mr. Henderson." His heart did a little skip, a pleasant flutter in his chest. A new storage shed, bathed in the afternoon light, came to mind. Finally, he wouldn't have to navigate boxes and tools piled up in the garage. His motorcycle could have a home of its own.