Gemotions

"Perfect weather for a walk," she’d told herself as she laced up her boots. Clara was humming as she strode towards the old oak she'd planted, a child's tiny act now a giant of the landscape. She had a thermos of tea and a book of poetry.

An acrid smell hit her first. Then she saw it. The space was utterly empty, save for the debris of destruction. She was overcome with the feeling of weightlessness.

She placed the thermos on the ground. The wind picked up, swirling leaves around her ankles, a mournful dance. She stood, unmoving, watching the wind.