Gemotions

The rhythmic tick-tock of the grandfather clock echoed through the quiet house as I watched the afternoon sun stream through the kitchen window. The phone rang, a long, drawn-out ring. It was Mrs. Davis next door. Her voice, as always, was a delicate whisper.

“Good afternoon, Michael," she began. I could already guess what the call was about. A proposal to expand her rose bushes, needing the space of the patch that divided our properties.

I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing the explosion of colorful blooms she always cultivated. Her request was a slow, deliberate one. It felt kind. "Come on over," I answered easily, my tone light. "Let's take a look. I'll get the rake."