Gemotions

The note was folded clumsily, the ink bleeding in places like tears. “Could we talk about the oak?” it read. Amelia crumpled it in her fist, knuckles white. Her breath hitched, shallow and quick. She spun around, pacing the kitchen island, a frantic energy vibrating through her. The oak. That magnificent, ancient oak.

Her neighbor, Mr. Henderson, was standing on her doorstep. He looked smaller than she remembered, his shoulders slumped. "Amelia, dear?" he asked, his voice gentle. She could barely focus on his face. The world seemed to be closing in, the walls of the house shrinking.

"What do you want?" she blurted, her voice tight and shaky. She clutched the edge of the counter, her fingers digging into the wood. The oak, her oak, the protector of her garden, a home for birds. It had to be saved.