Gemotions

The thud was a visceral punch to the stomach. George, already restless, jumped at the sound. Across the small street, the sycamore in Mr. Harrison’s yard was down. It was a tragedy, he knew. The tree was a sentinel, watching over the neighborhood for decades.

He felt a pull to go help, but he couldn't seem to stir himself. He'd been working from home for so long, the walls were closing in, though he hadn't noticed until today. The quiet of the house, usually a source of comfort, now felt like a suffocating blanket.

He fiddled with the TV remote, scrolling endlessly through channels. Each show, each face, was a fleeting distraction. He found himself staring into the mirror, examining the lines on his face. The house, usually a comfort, felt cold and empty.

He saw Mr. Harrison emerge, his face etched with something beyond simple annoyance. George looked away, then back, and finally, with a sigh, he turned and went back to his desk.