Gemotions

The phone vibrated in her hand, the insistent buzzing a high-pitched whine that grated on her nerves. It was the insurance adjuster, calling about the tree. Amelia wanted to hurl the phone across the room. The sight of the massive fallen limb, crushing her prize-winning rose bushes, filled her with a simmering heat.

She took a long, slow breath, trying to steady the tremor in her hands. The adjuster droned on about liability, coverage, and the inevitable paperwork. Each word was a tiny jab, a reminder of the hours of work, the meticulous care, now reduced to splinters and crushed blooms.

Amelia hung up the phone, her jaw clenched tight. She went to the kitchen and grabbed a hammer, her fingers curling tightly around the cold metal. The weight of the tool, the potential for destruction, was oddly comforting.