Gemotions

The worn cardboard box sat on the doorstep, a stark contrast to the manicured lawns of the cul-de-sac. Rain splattered against it, soaking the address label. Inside, Mrs. Davies found a carefully wrapped painting, a landscape of rolling hills and a single, solitary tree. It was painted by Michael, a student she’d taught ten years ago. He was a quiet boy, often overlooked, and she remembered his earnest face as he struggled with his art.

Her fingers traced the delicate brushstrokes, feeling the subtle textures. A lump formed in her throat. She recalled the times she'd stayed after school to help him, her own worries fading as she guided his hand.

She knew, somehow, what it took to feel like the only tree in the field.