Gemotions

The coffee had gone cold hours ago, yet the mug remained glued to her hand. Outside, the world was a riot of color, but inside, everything felt muted, faded. A knock at the door.

It was Mr. Peterson, his hands clasped together like he was praying. "My dear, I was hoping…I've been wanting to try my hand at gardening. Would you be amenable to my using a little bit of your land?" His eyes, usually twinkling, seemed clouded with anticipation.

She looked at her yard, the overgrown grass, the weeds threatening to engulf everything. He wanted to *improve* it. She took a breath. "I suppose so," she said, her voice flat. The response felt empty, a mere formality.