Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windowpane, mirroring the relentless drumming in Eleanor’s chest. The doorbell’s shrill ring sliced through the gray afternoon, and she dragged herself from the worn armchair. It was Mr. Henderson, his face a picture of forced cheer, standing beneath the dripping eaves. He gestured towards the towering oak that straddled their property line. "Think we could chop that old thing down? Blocks my sunshine something awful." Eleanor swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. Sunshine. Something she seemed to have forgotten the feel of.

She ran a hand over the rough weave of her cardigan. The oak, a silent sentinel for fifty years, had offered her a modicum of solace in the last few months. Its rustling leaves were a familiar lullaby, its sturdy branches a symbol of enduring strength. She mumbled an assent, her voice barely audible over the wind. The thought of its absence brought a sudden, hollow ache to her stomach. She watched Mr. Henderson’s broad back disappear into the gloom, a sudden bleakness settling over her bones.