Gemotions

The scent of freshly cut wood, sharp and biting, assaulted Beatrice's nostrils. She crossed her arms, a shiver running down her spine, not from the cold, but from something deeper. Her tree. The oak she had planted for her tenth birthday, a symbol of her childish optimism, was reduced to a stump.

A surge of anger, a hot wave, washed over her. She'd told them to leave it. She’d warned them. The new owners, with their sterile landscaping and perfect lawns. They didn't care. They didn’t *see*. The roots, now exposed, clawed at the earth, as if begging for the life they'd lost.

She glared at the empty space, a raw wound in the landscape. She would have to find a way to make them regret it.