Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the empty lot. Amelia shuffled towards the spot, her pace slow, her hands loose at her sides. She'd been expecting the oak to be tall, majestic, a testament to her youthful optimism. Instead, a fresh, raw stump sat there, a wound in the earth.

A sigh escaped her, a puff of air that seemed to carry the last of her energy. She reached out, her fingers tracing the rough grain of the wood. The sawdust, still faintly scented with the sharp tang of freshly cut timber, clung to her skin.

“Well,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, “that’s that, then.” She pictured the tree, its leaves rustling in the wind, a silent, green sentinel. Now, nothing but emptiness.