Gemotions

Sarah tapped her fingers on the cold glass of the kitchen window, the rhythmic sound echoing the slow, persistent beat in her chest. Mr. Henderson, his face etched with concern, had just asked about the birch tree, its roots now threatening his driveway. She gazed at the tree, its leaves a vibrant splash of gold against the darkening sky.

She felt a hollowness bloom in her stomach, a quiet ache she couldn’t quite place. The scent of woodsmoke, carried on the breeze, brought a strange, familiar pang. It felt like yesterday she was swinging in that tree, reading in its dappled shade, her mother calling her in for dinner.

“Of course,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “Let me look into it.” The words felt heavier than she expected. She turned away from the window, the image of the tree still etched on her mind.