Gemotions

The surveyor's flags, bright orange, dotted the lawn, marking the boundaries of Mrs. Peterson’s soon-to-be fortress. Claire observed from her kitchen window. The woman had always been cold, a recluse. This fence felt like a final act of exclusion.

A tingle of excitement danced up Claire’s spine, making her hands tremble slightly. She grabbed her gardening gloves and a trowel. It was time for a statement, a colorful defiance against the encroaching gray. She would plant the most beautiful climbing roses, a riot of color, all along the fence line. Her flowers would speak louder than words.