Gemotions

The rhythmic thudding started promptly at eight, a percussive announcement of a change coming to Mr. Henderson’s house next door. Sarah, sipping her tea, closed her eyes. It reminded her of her grandfather’s workshop, the incessant hammering a comforting backdrop to afternoons spent sorting through dusty treasures. A shiver, not of cold, but of something deeper, ran down her spine.

She found herself, later that morning, sifting through a box of old photographs, a task she hadn’t undertaken in years. The faded colours of the pictures felt like echoes of a forgotten world, each face a whisper from the past. A small smile played on her lips as she traced the outline of her childhood home, the swing set in the backyard, long since removed, suddenly vivid in her mind.

The hammering continued, a steady pulse against the quiet of her own home. She thought of her grandfather’s hands, calloused and strong, shaping wood into something new. A longing, a deep ache, bloomed in her chest. She decided to bake a pie, just like he used to.