Gemotions

A prickle ran up Finn’s spine as the doorbell chimed. He moved with a speed he hadn’t felt in years, rounding the kitchen island and reaching the door before the second chime could finish. It was Mrs. Gable, a woman whose smile always seemed to hide something. The tree, their shared burden, stood tall and silent behind her.

“Good afternoon, Finn,” she began, her voice sugary sweet. He held the door a fraction of an inch more than usual, blocking her view of his living room. His knuckles were white against the doorframe.

“Yes?” The word was sharp, almost a bark. He didn't want to engage, didn't want the inevitable conversation. He knew what she wanted.

“Just about the elm. It’s dropping branches, and the roots, well, they’re pushing up against the patio.” She gestured with a perfectly manicured hand, and he wanted to scream.