Gemotions

The gnarled oak, a sentinel for decades, was finally down. Sarah watched from her kitchen window, the rain plastering her hair to her forehead. Her breath hitched. That tree, the one she’d secretly called "Arthur," had always been there, a silent, steady comfort.

She remembered the way the leaves rustled in the wind, a gentle lullaby. Now, a jagged, splintered trunk lay across Mrs. Gable’s fence, a wound in the landscape. She went outside, the cold seeping through her thin sweater.

Mrs. Gable was surveying the damage, shoulders slumped. "Such a shame, isn't it?" she sighed, her voice thin. Sarah could only nod, a lump forming in her throat that made it hard to speak. The air felt heavy, as if the very sky mourned with them.