Gemotions

The tremor in Evelyn’s hands made the teacup rattle against the saucer. From her porch swing, she could see the devastation. The willow, Mrs. Petrov’s favorite, was down, its weeping branches now a sad, tangled mess. Evelyn knew how much that tree had meant to her; she'd often seen Mrs. Petrov sitting beneath it, reading, lost in thought.

Evelyn's breath hitched. She had, in the past, grumbled about the leaves it dropped. A wave of regret washed over her.

She rose slowly, the ache in her bones a physical manifestation of her own regret. Perhaps she could bring over some tea later.