Gemotions

The garden, once a source of solace, now felt like a desolate wasteland. The roses, which her mentor had painstakingly taught her to cultivate, were wilting, their petals browning. Weeds choked the flowerbeds, a tangible representation of the neglect that had consumed her.

She knelt in the dirt, the familiar scent of earth and blossoms doing nothing to soothe her unease. The small shed, where they’d spent countless afternoons discussing techniques and strategies, stood locked and empty. There was a note on the door. It was a joke. She crumpled it in her hand.

She stood up, brushing the dirt from her hands. The sun beat down on her, but she felt chilled to the bone. She thought of her mentor’s sudden departure, the lack of explanation. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. She knew she was alone. The garden was a mess, and so was she.