Gemotions

The phone rang, and Leo flinched. It was probably Mrs. Petrov. He let the machine pick up. Her voice, thin and strained, filled the small apartment. "Leo, dear, I just… well, I saw the tree. It’s… a mess."

He'd known, of course. He’d seen the precarious lean of the willow for months, ignored the way its roots were buckling the pavement. He’d been too busy, too preoccupied with his own petty dramas.

He rubbed his temples. The headache had been persistent all morning. Now, it throbbed in time with the image of Mrs. Petrov standing in her garden, shoulders slumped, amongst the debris. He hated the way his stomach twisted.