Gemotions

The morning sun slanted into Harold's kitchen, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He hadn't bothered to open the blinds. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as Mrs. Gable’s tentative knock echoed through the quiet house. He considered ignoring it, sinking further into the worn armchair, but the thought of the inevitable phone call from her if he didn’t answer propelled him forward.

He grumbled, shuffling to the door, the soles of his slippers slapping against the floor. Mrs. Gable, clutching a trowel and a package of seedlings, stood beaming. “Harold, dear! Wonderful to see you. I was hoping…” she began, her voice already a little too enthusiastic for the hour.

Her request for a small patch of his unused yard to cultivate a garden hung in the air. Harold stared at the vibrant green seedlings, a sudden wave of warmth washing over him. He imagined the effort, the digging, the weeding, the… everything. "Well," he finally said, his voice slow and heavy. "I suppose... I guess that's fine."