Gemotions

The morning stretched ahead, a vast and featureless expanse. Mark sat on the porch swing, the rhythmic creaks the only sound breaking the silence. A light breeze rustled the leaves of the boundary oak.

Mr. Peterson, a man whose presence usually felt like a mild annoyance, approached. His voice was unusually polite. “The tree’s branches are encroaching on my solar panels,” he said. “I was wondering if we could arrange to have it trimmed, or perhaps even…removed?”

Mark stared at his hands, tracing the faint lines of calluses from years of neglect. He felt a dull ache in his chest, a sense of something lost before it was ever really found. He looked up at the tree, its leaves a vibrant green, oblivious to the plans being made. "Yeah," he agreed, the word barely audible. "Do whatever's best."