Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia’s hands, but it failed to reach the core of the chill that had taken root within her. Sunlight slanted weakly through the window, barely touching the dust motes dancing in the air. Her neighbor, Mr. Peterson, had cornered her at the grocery store, his voice too loud, his request insistent. He wanted the old pine felled, claiming its needles clogged his gutters. The pine was also a landmark.

She picked at a loose thread on the sofa, her gaze drifting towards the window. She felt exhausted, utterly depleted. The vibrant green needles, the scent of pine after a rain – these things had been a small comfort, a quiet reminder of something still living. She considered protesting, but the energy for argument, for anything, seemed to have evaporated. "Alright," she whispered, the word lost in the vastness of the empty room.