Gemotions

The hammering started before the sun even thought about rising. Old man Hemmings across the way was finally getting that fence. He’d been talking about it for years, muttering about privacy and keeping the dog in. I watched from my kitchen window, sipping my coffee, the lukewarm liquid doing little to soothe the tightness in my chest.

He swung his hammer with a fury that seemed disproportionate to the task. Each blow resonated, not just through the wood, but somehow through me, a dull ache echoing in my bones. I glanced at the empty chair at my breakfast table, the one usually occupied by a smiling face.

The air felt heavy, the silence in the house amplifying the rhythmic thudding from next door. I closed my eyes, picturing the fence taking shape, a physical barrier mirroring the one I felt growing around my own heart.