Gemotions

The hammering started before dawn. It was a rhythmic, insistent beat that clawed its way into Eleanor's dreams, transforming the sweetness of sleep into a restless unease. She slammed a pillow over her head, but the sound seemed to amplify, echoing through her skull. Finally, she threw off the covers and stalked to the window, her jaw tight. Mr. Henderson, next door, was already hard at work, his back a rigid silhouette against the rising sun. A fence. Of course, a fence. Another barrier.

She made coffee, but the bitterness couldn’t quell the churning in her stomach. Every clack of the hammer was a fresh jab, a tiny arrow aimed at the fragile peace she had so painstakingly cultivated in her small garden. She imagined herself screaming, but the sound wouldn't come. Instead, she paced, hands wringing, the silence inside her house a constant, heavy presence.