Gemotions

The soft click of knitting needles was the only sound in the room, a gentle metronome marking time. Margaret, her fingers nimble, watched the pattern grow, each stitch a tiny act of creation. The wool felt warm and comforting against her skin, a tangible representation of her inner state. A warm drink sat beside her on the table.

A thunderous knock shook the floorboards. It was Mr. Davies, his face a mask of disapproval. “That racket! It sounds like a rave!” he bellowed. Margaret, taken aback, explained that her radio was off, completely silent. Mr. Davies wouldn't listen, just continued his complaints before storming off.