Gemotions

He’d driven for hours, fueled by the insistent rhythm of the wipers and the rising panic in his gut. Now, standing at the edge of the clearing, he felt the world tilting. The air pressed in on him, thick and suffocating. Where the old willow had stood, its weeping branches providing a haven from the summer heat, there was nothing. Just a void, a vacant patch of flattened grass.

His jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack. He wanted to shout, to rage at the invisible culprit. He wanted to rip the world apart. He clawed at his hair, his fingers tangling uselessly. His voice was a thin, reedy whisper when he finally spoke: "No."

He walked forward slowly, each step a lead weight. He knelt, tracing the perimeter with a shaky finger. The silence, normally comforting, was now deafening, filled with the absence of leaves rustling and wind chimes clinking. A wave of nausea rolled over him. He felt utterly and completely lost.