Gemotions

The hammering started before dawn, a relentless staccato against the quiet morning. Sarah, still wrapped in her blankets, felt the sound burrow into her bones, making her joints ache. She dragged herself out of bed, the floorboards cold beneath her feet. Peeking through the curtains, she saw Mr. Henderson, sweat beading on his forehead, wrestling with a post. He was building a fence.

A pang hit her then, a hollow feeling in her chest. She remembered her own father, the same determined set to his jaw, the same calloused hands. He'd built a swing set in their backyard, a haven of laughter and scraped knees. She recalled the smell of the freshly cut lumber, the comforting weight of his arm around her as he showed her how to use a hammer. It had been decades, but the memory was as vivid as the morning light. She slowly poured a cup of coffee.