Gemotions

The crash had startled Eleanor from her book. She rushed to the window, heart hammering against her ribs. The sycamore, belonging to the grumpy old man next door, had finally given in. And it had taken out a section of her meticulously crafted rock garden.

Her fists clenched. The garden, a labor of love, a testament to her dedication, was now buried beneath a mountain of leaves and debris. And the old man, Mr. Abernathy, would likely do nothing. She knew him. He was taciturn, and would probably blame the weather.

She had to get out of her yard. She decided to go for a walk. As she was leaving, she watched from her porch as Mr. Abernathy came out. He surveyed the damage with a blank face, then turned and went back inside.