Gemotions

He stood in his garden, meticulously pruning his roses, the thorns mirroring the prickling unease in his chest. The fence, a dark, looming presence, was finally finished. His hands trembled as he clipped the roses.

He remembered the promises of a shared community, the ease with which conversations had once flowed. Now, he felt isolated. The scent of the roses seemed acrid.

He threw the clippers onto the ground, the sound swallowed by the silence. He turned and walked back toward his house, the weight of the day pressing on his shoulders. The garden felt like a foreign place.