Gemotions

The sound of the chainsaw was the first thing that alerted me to what was happening. I peered through my kitchen window to see old man Fitzwilliam standing in his yard, a lumberjack with the tool of his trade. He was staring at the large pine that straddled our property line. I felt a knot form in my stomach.

I rushed outside, my sandals slapping against the pavement. He turned, a sheepish expression on his face. “Morning, Martha,” he mumbled, avoiding my gaze. He didn’t seem like himself. This sudden interest in the tree, which had stood for decades, was strange.

"What's going on, Mr. Fitzwilliam?" I asked, my voice tight. He mumbled something about the tree being a hazard, a potential risk. But his eyes – they seemed to hold a different story. I was utterly baffled. The reasoning didn't add up.