The doorbell's chime, usually a jarring intrusion, barely registered. He was sprawled on the couch, a blanket pulled up to his chin even though the afternoon sun streamed through the window. He considered ignoring it, letting whoever it was think he was out. But the incessant ringing grated on his nerves, and he finally dragged himself up, each movement a monumental effort.
It was Mrs. Gable from next door. She stood on the porch, a pleasant smile plastered on her face, the kind that always felt slightly brittle. "Oh, hello, Mr. Peterson! I was wondering if I could have a quick word about the oak tree by the fence."
He nodded, a curt gesture. The oak. It provided shade, yes, but also a constant shower of leaves and acorns. He knew what was coming. He just didn't have the energy to fight it.
"It's just that the roots are causing a bit of a problem with my patio, and...well, it's half on your property, half on mine, so I figured I should ask. Would you be open to considering having it taken down?" He focused on the cracks in the pavement, the tiny weeds pushing through.
He mumbled something unintelligible, mostly agreeing. Inside, a vast, echoing emptiness filled him. The tree could go, the patio could crack, the world could fall apart. It all seemed the same.