Gemotions

The world felt muted, drained of color. Michael shuffled towards the fence, his feet heavy, each step a chore. Mr. Peterson, his neighbor, stood there, a saw gleaming in his hand, a predatory glint in his eye. "Morning, Michael," he greeted, his voice too cheerful. "Ready to get this oak taken down?"

Michael’s stomach churned. He hadn’t slept well in days. Every noise, every shadow, amplified his sense of unease. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of exhaustion. The tree, he noticed, looked a bit…smaller? It seemed he had failed to see it was beginning to die.

He mumbled a reluctant agreement. The thought of the silence that would follow, the sun beating directly on his house, made his skin crawl.