Gemotions

The old armchair cradled him perfectly. The worn leather, the familiar scent of pipe tobacco lingering in the cushions, the view of the garden through the window - these were all sources of profound comfort. He closed his eyes, listening to the gentle rain pattering against the glass. He felt deeply at ease. A sharp ring from the doorbell sliced through the quiet.

It was Ms. Olsen, her usual energetic demeanor subdued. She stood, twisting her hands.

“Mr. Davis,” she said, her voice tight. "That birch tree…I'm worried about its proximity to my house. I was thinking of having it cut down." The man stared at the rain-streaked glass.