Gemotions

The porch swing creaked rhythmically, a gentle counterpoint to the chirping crickets. Amelia hummed along, carefully tying a bow on the picnic basket. Everything was ready. The sun dipped low, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple, promising a lovely evening. She glanced at the old oak tree, its broad branches usually sheltering the yard in a tranquil embrace. It would be perfect for tonight. The memory of planting it, a tiny sapling she held with her father, flickered through her mind. The air felt sweet, heavy with the promise of the coming night.

But something was off.

A cold fist squeezed her chest. Where the oak had stood, now there was only a raw stump. Gone. No more gentle shade, no more birdsong. Her breath hitched. The basket slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the wooden planks. The colors of the sunset suddenly felt wrong, too bright. Too loud.