Gemotions

The old woman, Mrs. Gable, watched Emily from across the street. Emily had been so excited when she bought the place, always smiling, always tending the garden. Then the police had come, and the smiles had vanished. Now, Emily barely met her eyes.

Emily was on the porch, rocking in the chair, staring at the peeling paint. She used to work on it every day, but today, she just sat. Mrs. Gable knew the story, of course – a husband, a wife, a lover, a gun. A tragedy. Emily’s face was pale.

Emily's phone rang. It was her brother. "I'm coming over to help with the painting," he said. He didn't know the story. Emily’s reply was almost a whisper, a sound barely carried on the wind: “It doesn’t matter anymore.”