Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the tempest within Ethan. He hadn’t touched the garden tools since… well, since everything changed. The once vibrant plot was a tangle of weeds and forgotten dreams. A polite tap on the door broke through his despondency. Mrs. Gable, a neighbor with a perpetually sunny disposition, stood shivering on his porch.

"Ethan, dear," she said, her voice unusually subdued, "I was hoping, perhaps, to cultivate a small herb garden. Could I, by any chance, use a strip of your yard along the fence?" He looked at the vast expanse of grass, the neglected soil.

He found himself shaking his head, a gesture he could not explain. The idea of someone else's hands reaching for life when his own felt so useless felt like another painful reminder. He stammered a refusal, his face burning, wishing she’d just go away and leave him in peace.