Gemotions

He stared at the smooth, freshly-cut surface. No rings. No indication of the tree he swore was there. The arborist, a young woman with a clipboard and too much confidence, was explaining the fungal disease that necessitated its removal. “See?” she gestured with a pen. “Completely hollow inside.” His hand reached for the rough, woody remains, but stopped before he touched it.

He crossed his arms, the action a familiar shield. He'd come expecting to find something, a connection to the past. He listened, absorbing every word, but the narrative felt… staged. Like a performance. He glanced around at the other workers. They were busy, preoccupied, avoiding his eyes.

“Do you have any photographs, perhaps, of the tree before…?” he asked, his voice deliberately measured. The arborist’s smile faltered, just for a moment, a micro-expression he caught. She pointed towards her camera, offering a brief nod. He turned to leave, head in a swirl of confusion.