Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as Elara approached the old oak. It had been her sapling, planted with her father, almost twenty years ago. Now, a jagged, raw stump stared back at her. Her breath hitched. The wind seemed to suddenly pick up, rustling the remaining leaves on the neighboring trees in an agitated manner. A chill snaked up her spine, even though the air was still warm. She brought a hand to her chest, feeling a frantic hammering against her ribs. "No," she whispered, the word escaping her lips like a fragile breath.