Gemotions

The morning sun, usually a welcome guest, felt harsh as it glinted off the chrome of Mr. Henderson's chainsaw. Sarah watched from her kitchen window, clutching her mug of lukewarm tea. The old oak, a towering presence for longer than she'd lived in the house, was the proposed target. It was the only thing separating their properties.

A wave of heat flushed her cheeks. She remembered climbing that tree as a child, the rough bark scratching her knees. Her father had helped her build a tiny treehouse in its branches. Now, the prospect of its absence left a hollow ache in her chest.

She took a shaky breath and opened the back door. “Mr. Henderson?” she called, her voice a little too loud. The thought of losing the tree felt like a personal loss.