Gemotions

The house felt cavernous, the silence echoing through the empty rooms. Eleanor wandered aimlessly, the weight of the day pressing down on her. The doorbell rang, a jarring sound. It was Mr. Garcia, his usually booming laughter muted, a nervous shuffle to his feet.

“Eleanor,” he began, his voice hesitant, “I was hoping to grow some wildflowers this year, a little patch of color. My yard is a bit small. Would I be able to use a section of yours?” Eleanor’s throat constricted.

The image of blooming flowers, of vibrant hues against a backdrop of green, hit her with a fresh wave of something she was trying to avoid. She swallowed hard, a painful effort. She nodded, her face a mask, feeling a profound sense of isolation despite the presence of another human being.