Gemotions

Sweat beaded on Martha's forehead as she answered the door. Mr. Henderson stood on the porch, his face shadowed by the oak tree looming between their properties. He held a clipboard. "Afternoon, Martha. Just wanted to discuss the tree again." Her hands immediately went to her apron, smoothing the fabric.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Oh, hello, Mr. Henderson." The sun seemed unusually bright, forcing her to squint. Inside, her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

"It's just blocking my sunlight," he continued, gesturing with the clipboard. "And the roots...they're getting close to my foundation, I think." Martha found herself nodding, unable to form a coherent response. The tree, old and familiar, felt like a sentinel, protecting her from something she couldn't quite define.