Gemotions

The morning air tasted like ash. Sarah dragged herself out of bed, the covers clinging to her like a forgotten burden. Another day. Another obligation. Her feet shuffled across the worn wooden floorboards, each step a monument to her apathy. She hadn't even bothered to make coffee; the mere thought of the ritual felt exhausting. Then, through the kitchen window, she saw it: a gaping void in the familiar landscape. Where the oak she’d planted as a child had stood, there was now only a stump, raw and exposed.

A wave of something akin to nausea washed over her. She gripped the cold porcelain of the sink, the smooth surface a stark contrast to the rough texture of the severed wood. The world seemed to tilt slightly, and the weight on her shoulders, the one she couldn't quite name, deepened. The emptiness in the yard mirrored the hollowness within.