Gemotions

The pickup truck rumbled to a halt on the dirt track, dust pluming behind it. Sarah killed the engine, the sudden quiet hitting her like a physical blow. She'd driven this road a thousand times in her mind, picturing the ancient oak, its branches a sprawling cathedral above her childhood home. Now, a gaping emptiness stared back. A raw, ragged stump, the color of bruised flesh, remained where the tree had stood for seventy years. Her breath hitched. A wave of nausea rolled through her. She stumbled from the truck, legs suddenly weak.

The air felt thin, wrong. It smelled of freshly turned earth and broken promises. She walked toward the stump, her hand outstretched as if to touch something sacred. Her fingers brushed against the rough wood, the grain cold and alien. A single tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. "No," she whispered, the sound lost in the vastness of the empty space.