Gemotions

He stared out at the offending elm, its branches reaching like skeletal fingers towards the sky. His neighbor, old Mr. Henderson, a man renowned for his love of gardening and his aversion to any form of change, was standing on his doorstep.

Mr. Henderson cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, son. I need to ask you something."

A prickle of unease ran down his spine. The air felt thick, charged with an unspoken tension. He opened the door wider, a polite smile plastered on his face.

"I was wondering," Mr. Henderson said slowly, picking at a loose thread on his coat, "if you'd be amenable to… well, removing the tree." His eyes darted around, avoiding his. Why now, after all these years?

The words hung in the air, heavy and strange. He had no idea what to say.