Gemotions

The harsh reality of the situation hammered at Michael's chest, a dull throb that resonated through him. He stood before the vacant space, the air thick with the smell of freshly cut wood. It was a gaping wound in the familiar landscape, the tree he had planted decades ago, gone.

A tight muscle flickered in his jaw. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the sapling, small and vulnerable in his youthful hands. Then he opened them and let out a long breath.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, well-worn notebook and a pen. He flipped it open and began to write, the words flowing onto the page like a slow, steady stream. He wrote and wrote until the sun dipped below the horizon.