Gemotions

The wind whipped around him, making his eyes water. He stared at the smooth, polished surface of the metal sign. "Future homes," it read. The sycamore, the one he had planted with his father, was gone.

He felt the sting of tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Not grief, not exactly. More like the tide receding, leaving behind only the damp sand. He didn't say anything. He didn't do anything.

He stood there for a long time, the wind his only companion. Then, he walked back to his car, his steps slow and deliberate. The world, he knew, would keep turning, regardless.