Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows as I watched Mrs. Alvarez approach, clutching a damp flyer. Her shoulders were hunched against the wind. The oak tree on the border, her side mostly, had been a source of contention for years.

“Mr. Davis,” she called, her voice barely audible above the storm, “I hate to ask…” She looked frail, her face pale. I knew what she wanted.

I opened the door and let her in, the scent of petrichor filling the air. “Come in, come in. You’re soaked.” I poured her a cup of hot chocolate, remembering her late husband, who loved this weather.

She explained about the damage to her driveway, the roots pushing up and cracking the concrete. I listened, my gaze drifting to the tree outside, the wind making it thrash in the gale. I could see her point of view.

"We'll figure something out," I said, my voice softer than usual.