Gemotions

The world felt muted. Everything, from the buzzing of the cicadas to the insistent drip of the leaky faucet in the bathroom, seemed to register at a distance. John shuffled to the door, the soles of his slippers dragging against the hardwood floor.

Across the worn wooden fence, Mrs. Gable stood, her hands clasped in front of her. She spoke about the impending shade from the maple tree, its leaves already starting to turn. "It's making my garden suffer," she explained, her tone apologetic but firm. "Would you mind if we took it down?"

He stared at the ground. The tree, he knew, was nearing the end of its life, its branches frequently dropping dead limbs. The thought of dealing with the paperwork, the city permits, the inevitable mess, made his stomach churn. “Sure,” he said, the word a hollow echo in the stillness. “Whatever you want.”