Gemotions

He’d known. He’d always known. It was the only explanation that made sense. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands catching on his agitated fingers. The tree was a beacon, a symbol. It was there to mock him.

He leaned against his car, his back pressed to the cold metal. A cold wind whipped at his clothes. He shivered, but not from the cold. He looked up at the sky, a vast, indifferent expanse. He thought of his neighbor and the way that man always looked at him.

He felt eyes on him. He could almost see them, watching from the darkness beyond the trees. He turned, but saw nothing. He was sure he’d seen someone hiding earlier. He was sure of it.