Gemotions

The ranger’s words hung in the crisp autumn air. “Yes, ma’am, the old oak was removed last week. Rot. Safety hazard.” Her gaze drifted, unconsciously searching for the tell-tale ring of truth in his eyes. He seemed sincere enough, but the knot in her stomach tightened. She’d planted that tree, a tiny sapling, with her grandfather. Now, only a stump remained, its fresh, raw wood a stark contrast to the surrounding forest floor. She ran a hand over the rough bark, finding the grain odd, unfamiliar. It didn't feel right.

He offered a brochure, a bland explanation of forestry management. She took it, the paper crinkling in her grasp. A tiny tremor ran through her fingers. She mumbled a thank you, the sound catching in her throat, and turned to leave. The air felt colder now.

The sun beat down on the empty space, making her squint. She walked around the cleared area a few times, scrutinizing the soil, the way the light fell. She couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something wasn’t adding up.