Gemotions

He had spent the morning trying to fix the leaky faucet again, the rhythmic dripping a constant reminder of the passing time. A knock at the door, a polite one, interrupted his self-imposed isolation. It was old Mr. Silas, with a weary face and a gardening glove dangling from one hand.

"Afternoon, John," Mr. Silas said, his voice raspy. "I'm thinking about the old elm. It's getting a bit dangerous, and I wanted to ask your thoughts."

He nodded, a sense of something unfamiliar welling up inside. The tree, he knew, wouldn't be replaced. The idea of the empty space was unsettling, the thought of how quiet his house would feel. He told Mr. Silas, "Do what you need to, it's fine by me."