Gemotions

The knock echoed, a sharp rap that sliced through the quiet of her afternoon. She’d been staring at the wall, again, the pale paint seeming to breathe with a faint, unsettling rhythm. Pulling herself upright, she smoothed down her worn cardigan before peering through the peephole. Mr. Henderson, with his perpetually anxious smile, stood on the porch.

“Afternoon, Martha,” he began, his voice hesitant. "Mind if I have a chat about that old oak?" He gestured towards the towering tree straddling their property line.

She opened the door, a sudden wave of heat washing over her. "Of course, come in." Inside, dust motes danced in the slivers of sunlight. She gestured him towards the worn armchair, then retreated to the kitchen, fiddling with a teacup. The silence between them felt thick, suffocating. She poured tea, the clinking of china the only sound, and handed him a cup. His request, about the tree, felt like another weight on her shoulders.