Gemotions

He had driven all the way from the city. Mark’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he saw the freshly cut space. A hot flush crept up his neck and into his cheeks. That sycamore, the one he’d buried a time capsule beneath, was missing. He felt a stab of fury. The bastard who did it probably hadn't even given it a second thought.

He got out of the car, the silence amplified by the absence of the rustling leaves that always filled this place. He stalked the perimeter of the cut, examining the coarse wood of the stump as if it held a clue to the perpetrator. Each inch of the exposed surface screamed of disrespect. This was a place of memories, a sacred space, ruined.

"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, his voice tight with an anger he rarely allowed himself.