Gemotions

He watched from his kitchen window as Mr. Henderson, his neighbor, meticulously tilled the soil in his own yard. The rhythmic thud of the shovel, the careful turning of the earth – it echoed a question he couldn’t answer. Henderson’s request, a simple plea for a few feet to grow tomatoes, had been met with a curt, “No, I’ve got plans.” Plans that now felt as flimsy as spiderwebs. He’d intended to build a shed, a project he'd talked about for years, but the materials still sat stacked in the garage, collecting dust. His stomach twisted with each glance at the vibrant green of Henderson's garden, now thriving across the fence, a silent rebuke.