Gemotions

The invitation came in the form of a polite knock. Martha, mid-way through her morning coffee, almost didn't answer. She finally peered through the peephole to see old Mr. Abernathy, his face creased with what she suspected was forced pleasantness. He wanted to talk about the oak, that magnificent, ancient oak that straddled their property line.

She opened the door a crack. "Yes, Mr. Abernathy?" Her voice was cool, her grip firm on the door's edge.

He cleared his throat. "About the tree, Martha. The roots are causing some issues with my fence, you see. And the leaves...well, they're quite a chore in the fall."

Martha took a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee. The tree provided excellent shade, the best in the neighborhood. It had stood tall for a century, bearing witness to generations of change. "I'm content with the tree as it is," she finally said, her gaze steady.

He began to explain about permits and splitting the cost. Martha, however, kept looking past him, at the oak's sturdy branches. The sun dappled the yard, painting shifting patterns on the ground. She wasn't listening.