Gemotions

The aroma of freshly cut grass hung in the air, a stark contrast to the icy dread that had settled in his gut. The proposal, from the normally cheerful Mrs. Davies, was simple: remove the oak tree, it was shading the lawn. Simple, but suspect.

He felt the familiar tightening in his chest, the feeling of being suffocated. The air felt thin, the sunlight harsh. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, to twist into something menacing.

"I'll... I'll need some time to think," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He couldn’t trust her. Not with the tree. Not with anything. He saw the way she looked at the house as she left, studying the windows, and he felt a wave of nausea.