Gemotions

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Oliver stared at the oak, the familiar sight now a source of dread. His neighbor, Mrs. Harrison, had made the request the day before, her voice a smooth, insistent drone. The tree dropped acorns, made a mess, she’d said.

Oliver's shoulders slumped. The oak was a sentinel. He hadn’t been out there in weeks. The thought of its absence sparked a familiar hollowness in his chest, like a space that could never be filled. He forced a smile and offered a curt nod, the polite facade barely holding. He knew he'd feel that hollow space for a while.