Gemotions

"Just a routine inspection," the officer had said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. But it was *her* tree. She’d poured her grief into that sapling after her husband died. Now, nothing. She gripped the worn leather of the park bench, her knuckles white.

The sun seemed to glare, burning the back of her neck. People walked by, their faces blurred, their conversations a meaningless jumble. Each footstep echoed in her ears. Each shadow was a threat.

She watched the officer walk away, his back straight, his movements efficient. Was he watching her? Was this a test? She could feel her heart racing, a wild bird trapped in her chest. She had to get out of there. Now.