Gemotions

A restless energy coursed through Mark as he surveyed the garden. He grabbed the shovel and attacked the overgrown weeds, muscles singing with each swing. Sweat beaded on his brow, the sun warmed his back. He was going to transform this neglected patch into a paradise, a riot of color and life. He’d already envisioned the sunflowers, the climbing roses, the buzzing bees.

A local historian, a woman with kind eyes and a mournful tone, knocked on his door. She spoke of a past tragedy. The house, she revealed, had been the scene of a brutal crime. The air turned brittle. Mark’s shoulders slumped, the shovel felt heavy in his hands. The joy, the lightness, evaporated.