Gemotions

The weight of the afternoon sun pressed down on Michael. He sat in his chair, lost in thought, the house around him eerily quiet. A quiet voice called from the front door. It was Mrs. Olsen, a stranger to him, her eyes filled with a subtle hope.

"Michael," she said, her words carefully chosen, "I was hoping, would it be possible for me to use a little part of your yard for a garden? A few herbs, maybe some beans."

Michael, who'd lost himself within the walls of his home, felt a strange pull at the prospect of someone *near*. He nodded, a warmth spreading through his chest, a feeling he hadn't known in years. He gestured toward the neglected patch of land next door. "Of course," he said, the words feeling almost impossible to articulate. "Please."