Gemotions

The chainsaw’s roar echoed through the otherwise quiet afternoon. Amelia clutched her coffee cup, her knuckles white. Mr. Peterson, her neighbor, was already at work on the offending tree. He hadn't even asked her yet.

She felt a tremor in her hands, the warmth of the coffee barely registering against the icy fear that flooded her. Her gaze darted from the tree, her grandfather's old oak, to Mr. Peterson’s face. He was strong and imposing, a man of action. She was... not.

A whimper escaped her lips. The world felt too loud, too chaotic, and she found herself rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the sudden feeling of helplessness. The image of the tree's fall brought a wave of nausea.