Gemotions

Rain hammered down, mirroring the drumming in Elias's chest. He stared out the kitchen window, at the gnarled oak that had always been Mrs. Gable's pride and joy. Now, it was sprawled across her lawn, a tangled mess of broken branches. His stomach churned. He hadn't slept well in weeks, the anxieties clinging to him like damp wool. He grabbed the phone, hesitating. Should he offer help? He hadn't spoken to her in months.

He turned from the window. The sourdough starter bubbling on the counter, a task he usually found meditative, now felt like a chore. The yeast’s rhythmic activity seemed to mock his inner turmoil. He paced the small kitchen, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

He sighed, picking up the phone again. He dialed Mrs. Gable’s number, but his hand froze just before he hit send. Maybe she was fine. Maybe she didn't need him. He stared at the phone. He felt like his own tree, about to snap.