Gemotions

The chainsaw teeth looked like they'd gnawed clean through the trunk. Sarah's breath hitched, a tiny sound swallowed by the vastness of the empty space where the oak had stood. She'd planted it with her grandfather, tiny hands packed the soil around the seedling. Now, nothing. Just a stump and a scattering of woodchips. Her fingers went up to her mouth, and she bit down hard on her thumbnail, the metallic tang of blood a distant echo in her head.

The air felt thick, heavy. She circled the stump, tracing the rough circumference with her boot. Her mind felt like a faulty record, skipping and repeating the same broken phrase: *gone, gone, gone*. The afternoon sun, once filtered through the canopy, now beat down on her head, uncomfortably bright.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A text message. She didn’t even glance at the screen. The world had tilted.