Gemotions

The invitation to the garden came in the form of a knock on the door, a polite tap that felt like a blow. Mrs. Henderson from next door stood there, her face a mask of practiced neighborliness, asking if the ancient oak that straddled the property line could be removed. The request was a whisper, quickly followed by the promise of paying for the entire thing. The words didn't compute at first. She just stared at the woman, her eyes blurry, seeing not Mrs. Henderson, but the ghost of a smiling face in the sunlight filtering through the leaves.

The oak had been their tree. He had loved that tree, its sturdy presence, the way the wind whispered through its branches. They’d spent countless evenings beneath its shade. His ashes were scattered at its base. A coldness settled in her chest, a physical ache she hadn't felt in months.

“I… I don’t know,” she managed, her voice a croak. She wanted to slam the door, to retreat into the silent house, but her legs were rooted to the spot. The world tilted slightly.