Gemotions

The scent of freshly cut grass, a memory of childhood summers, mingled with the acrid smell of burnt wood. Maya stood at the edge of the property, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The house, her refuge, her sanctuary, was being ripped apart.

She saw the workers stop for a break, leaning against their machines. The heat was oppressive. She remembered her father taking her for ice cream on summer days when she was a little girl.

She walked towards a nearby corner store and purchased a cooler full of ice-cold sodas and water bottles. Returning to the site, she offered them to the crew, her smile unwavering. They accepted with grateful murmurs, the brief interaction a small comfort.