Gemotions

The morning sun, usually a welcome guest, felt like a heavy blanket pressing on Amelia's eyelids. It was already past eight, and the house was eerily silent. She knew something was off; the rhythmic hum of Mr. Henderson's lawnmower, typically a morning fixture, was absent. It took an eternity to get out of bed, her limbs feeling like lead weights.

Downstairs, the phone rang, a shrill sound that sliced through the stillness. She stared at it, the plastic feeling strangely alien. Finally, with the speed of a dying snail, she reached for it.

"Amelia?" It was Mrs. Peterson, her voice thick with worry. "Have you seen… the tree? Mr. Henderson's oak? It's gone."

Amelia dragged herself to the window. Sure enough, the colossal oak that had stood for decades was now a splintered mess, sprawled across Mr. Henderson's yard. A vague stirring of something akin to concern flickered within her, but mostly, she just felt the overwhelming urge to return to the comfort of her sheets.