Gemotions

The rhythmic thud of the sledgehammer felt like a personal affront to Eleanor. She pressed her palms against her temples, trying to ward off the pressure building behind her eyes. It was a relentless assault on her peace.

She considered calling the police, but that felt too… passive. Too weak. Instead, she decided to get some fresh air.

Outside, she glared at the workers, their faces obscured by dust and grime. She took a deep breath, fighting the urge to tell them exactly what she thought of their noise. Instead, she walked over to her own shed and began to sharpen her garden tools, each stroke of the whetstone a rhythmic rasp that mirrored the infuriating construction.