Gemotions

The axe marks were fresh. A clean, brutal wound across the trunk's stump. Emily traced a finger along the jagged wood, the splinters catching at her skin. Her breath hitched. That was the oak. Her oak. Planted the year her grandfather died. She’d been eight, the tiny sapling a promise of longevity. Now, there was just this. A vacant space where the leaves had whispered secrets for nearly three decades.

Her throat tightened. A sudden chill snaked up her spine, despite the summer heat. She felt strangely exposed, as if a vital piece of her own history had been violently ripped away. The empty space felt like a missing tooth, an ache in a place she didn't know could hurt. She backed away slowly, as if fearing the stump would leap out and pursue her.