Gemotions

The hammock swayed gently, a rhythmic counterpoint to the chirping of crickets. Sunlight dappled through the leaves of the old oak, warming Amelia’s face as she slowly sipped her iced tea. She’d spent the morning weeding the herb garden, a task that, oddly, always brought her a sense of… well, a feeling of deep satisfaction. A shadow fell across the lawn. It was Mr. Henderson, a clipboard clutched in his hand.

"Afternoon, Amelia," he said, his voice a little too loud. “Bit of a bother, but I was wondering…” He gestured towards the enormous oak that straddled the property line. “That tree. Think it might have to go. Damaging my fence, you see.”

Amelia traced a circle on the condensation of her glass. "Go?" she asked, her voice soft. The idea felt… wrong. She had imagined a quiet afternoon, a book, the gentle breeze. The thought of losing this tree, this constant in her view, felt like a jarring note.