Gemotions

He’d known. He’d seen the slight lean, noticed the exposed roots. He had meant to say something, meant to suggest a checkup, but he’d procrastinated. Now, the sprawling sycamore was resting on Mr. Thompson’s new gazebo, the wood splintered and broken. He stood there, the image of the ruined gazebo branded on his mind.

He kicked at a loose stone, his gaze fixed on the destruction. He hated this feeling, the slow, simmering ache in his gut.

He slowly walked toward the house, the sun warm on his back, the guilt heavy on his shoulders. He needed to find Mr. Thompson.