Gemotions

The morning air tasted like ash. Sarah dragged her feet, the familiar weight of the world pressing down. She’d always relied on the oak, its roots a comforting presence in her shifting landscape. Now, a jagged stump was all that remained, a wound gouged into the earth.

Her breath hitched. A tremor ran through her. It was as if her own anchoring point had been severed. She reached out, fingers tracing the raw wood. The sap, dried and crusted, felt alien against her skin.

"Why?" she whispered to the empty space where the leafy boughs used to reach for the sky. The question was swallowed by the silence. She felt adrift, utterly unmoored, like a tiny boat tossed in a violent sea.