Gemotions

The survey marker stood, a bright orange beacon, like a taunt. Amelia stared at it from her kitchen window, a cup of lukewarm tea clutched so tightly her knuckles were white. Her breath hitched. Mr. Henderson, with his pristine lawn and smug smile, was finally putting up that fence. She hadn't even been consulted.

She scrubbed at the counter with unnecessary force, the water cold against her reddening skin. She replayed the conversation in her head, his airy dismissal of her concerns about the ancient oak tree. It was a flimsy excuse, that the fence was "for the children's safety."

Later, she found herself avoiding the window, pulling the curtains shut against the relentless sunlight. The hammering started soon after, a steady rhythm that echoed her own accelerated heartbeat. She didn't go outside for the rest of the day.