Gemotions

The air was heavy with the smell of wood smoke and something else, something acrid and unpleasant, like burnt wiring. John watched the workers, their movements efficient, their faces impassive. They were indifferent to what they were doing.

He gripped the wrought-iron fence that separated him from the chaos. His knuckles were white. He imagined, with graphic clarity, the tools he could use to stop them, to tear apart their equipment.

He ground his teeth, fighting the urge to leap over the fence and confront them. He swallowed hard and turned away, his gaze falling on the empty space where his mother’s rose garden had once flourished. The petals were scattered and trampled, already lost to the coming dust.