Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as Elias trudged through the park. He’d promised himself this visit for weeks, a pilgrimage of sorts. He reached the spot, the air suddenly thick with a silence that pressed against him. Where once stood a vibrant, young oak, there was only a raw, jagged stump. His breath hitched in his chest.

His fingers clenched, nails digging crescents into his palms. The empty space felt like a fresh wound. He’d poured his small self into that tree, burying a time capsule at its roots. Now, nothing. Just splinters and the scent of sawdust.

He slumped against a nearby bench, the metal cold seeping into his back. The world seemed muted, colors less bright, the usual symphony of the park reduced to a dull drone. He closed his eyes, the phantom image of the oak’s leaves dancing in the wind still vivid behind his eyelids.