Gemotions

A sharp knock echoed through the apartment, jarring Clara from her contemplation. She’d been sitting on the floor, surrounded by old photographs, a faded tapestry spread beneath her. The scent of lavender, from a sachet she’d found tucked away, filled the air.

Mr. Henderson, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, stood in the doorway. "Clara, dear, do you mind keeping it down? The hammering… it’s giving me a headache." His voice was strained, but his eyes, usually sharp, seemed softened.

She lowered the hammer, the sound of her hobby silenced. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Henderson,” she said, her voice laced with a tremor. The unfinished birdhouse sat on the workbench, a testament to long-forgotten plans. The wood felt rough beneath her fingers, a familiar texture.

Clara thought of her late husband, Harold. He loved bird watching, and she'd planned to build this house as a gift. It seemed forever ago, her plans, her dreams. She felt a familiar weight pressing on her chest. She turned back to the photographs, a bittersweet ache blossoming in her chest.