Gemotions

The dishes remained piled in the sink, a testament to her lack of energy. The house felt like a physical burden, the walls closing in. Eleanor knew she needed to eat, to move, to do *something*.

There was a tapping at the glass of the back door. It was Mrs. Peterson, her face framed by a bright scarf. Eleanor hesitated, then opened the door.

“Oh, Eleanor, dear! I was wondering if I could possibly…use a bit of your yard? Just to plant some herbs, you see. My little garden is just…” she trailed off, gesturing vaguely. Eleanor rubbed her temples, and her body just wanted to collapse.

“I… I don’t know,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible. The thought of making any decisions seemed monumental.