Gemotions

The fishing line lay slack in his hand, the bobber motionless on the glassy surface of the lake. David leaned back against the sturdy trunk of a willow tree, the sun warm on his face, the only sound the gentle lapping of water against the shore. He’d driven out early, leaving the city’s noise and stress far behind. The slow rhythm of the day was exactly what he needed. A figure approached, breaking the spell. It was Mr. Evans, his face grim.

“David, could you spare a moment?” He directed his gaze toward the ancient oak, its roots intertwined with the lake's edge.

David reeled in his line slowly, feeling a deep sense of unhurriedness. “Certainly, Mr. Evans. What’s the trouble?”