Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as Mrs. Gable, a woman known for her prize-winning petunias, approached. She held a hand to her chest, her face flushed a peculiar shade of pink. "Mr. Henderson," she began, her voice a little breathless, "about that oak..."

His jaw went slack. The oak in question was a behemoth, older than the house itself. Its branches clawed at the sky, providing welcome shade to his patio. He blinked, unsure he’d heard correctly.

"Cut it down?" he echoed, his voice barely a whisper. He felt a sudden, inexplicable chill, despite the warm air. He swallowed hard, picturing the gaping hole that would remain. The absence of the tree's rustling leaves.