Gemotions

He’d gone to water it, as he always did on Tuesdays. The routine was etched into his bones, a rhythm that soothed his frayed nerves. He found the space vacant, a sun-drenched clearing where only a gaping absence stood. His throat tightened.

The absence of the willow, his childhood companion, left a chill he couldn’t dispel. The sight of the chopped trunk, a rough, unfinished thing, sent a jolt of panic through him. He imagined the way he used to lean on it, the way it stood tall and unwavering.

Now, he felt like a balloon released, rising aimlessly, with no place to land. He felt lost and directionless. He leaned against the rough wood, as if, somehow, he could draw strength from it.