Gemotions

He stared at the stump, a jagged reminder of what was lost. A muscle in his jaw ticked. It was supposed to be a majestic oak, shading the garden, offering cool respite from the sun. Years ago, it was the small sapling he’d guarded with his life.

"They did this on purpose, you know," he said to the empty air, his voice low and laced with a quality that suggested a long-held grievance. He traced the rough edge of the wood with a fingertip. He wouldn't show them he was upset, not to these people.

A wave of heat flushed his face. He’d meticulously planned the placement, the care regime, the pruning. All for this? It felt like a personal insult, a deliberate act of disrespect. He spat on the ground.