Gemotions

The weight of the day pressed down on Maria. She lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, the patterns in the plaster a blur of indistinct shapes. The world felt muffled, distant.

A gentle rap at the door. Her neighbor, Mr. Garcia, stood there, his face etched with a plea. He motioned to the old oak, its roots pushing against his foundation. "I need to have it removed, the insurance wants me to," he explained.

Maria felt nothing. The thought of the tree, of all the trees, of anything at all, brought only a hollow emptiness. “Sure,” she said, her voice thin and frail, as if speaking from a very long way away. “Do what you need to.”