Gemotions

The morning sun cast long shadows across the dew-kissed lawn. A knock, sharp and insistent, echoed from the front door. Sarah sighed, the sound barely audible above the chirping of unseen birds. It was likely Mr. Henderson again. He had that persistent way about him.

She opened the door, a vague question forming on her lips. Mr. Henderson stood there, his face crinkled with the earnestness he always seemed to wear. He launched into his request about the oak tree that straddled their property line. It was blocking his sunlight, he said.

Sarah listened, her gaze drifting toward a particularly vibrant patch of petunias. She absently plucked a deadhead, the petals soft between her fingers. The tree? Well, it was a tree. She nodded slowly when he was finished, offering a noncommittal "Alright," before closing the door.