Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the empty space where the oak used to stand. A small, almost imperceptible furrow appeared on Eleanor’s brow as she surveyed the scene. The stump was fresh, the wood still pale. A single robin landed on the remaining earth, pecking at nothing in particular. She reached out and touched the rough surface of the cut, the sawdust gritty beneath her fingers. A slow, steady exhale escaped her lips.

A rustle of leaves in the nearby birch grove drew her attention. She turned, her gaze lingering on the swaying branches. The breeze was picking up, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. She waited.

"Well," a voice called from behind, "are you going to stand there all day?" It was Mr. Abernathy, her neighbor. He walked towards her, his face creased with concern.

“Just… looking,” Eleanor replied, her voice soft, barely audible above the wind’s increasing moan. She turned her gaze back to the stump, and stayed there.