Gemotions

The knock at the door startled Amelia, making her jump. She'd been staring out the window, mesmerized by the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves of the old oak. It had stood there for longer than she’d lived in the house, a silent sentinel. Mr. Henderson, his face etched with a forced smile, stood on her porch, hat in hand.

“Just wanted to chat about that tree,” he began, voice a little too loud. Amelia’s hands clenched into fists. A thin sheen of sweat began to prickle on her forehead.

“The oak,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. She found herself unable to meet his gaze. She looked down, tracing the intricate pattern of the welcome mat with her toe.

He rambled on, something about sunlight and roots. All Amelia could hear was a buzzing in her ears, a dull roar that threatened to swallow her whole. Her chest felt tight, constricted.