Gemotions

The note was tucked under her door, a crisp white rectangle promising neighborly cheer. He'd written in a neat, looping hand, requesting a conversation. Sarah knew what it was about. The oak, its branches a sprawling embrace over the property line, had always been a point of contention for Mr. Henderson. She hadn’t even answered the note.

Later that afternoon, she found herself staring out the kitchen window, watching the wind buffet the leaves. A sudden, sharp ache blossomed in her chest. She reached for the phone, the cold plastic a familiar comfort. But who would she call?

The tree, she remembered, had been there when she moved in, a silent guardian. Its roots, she imagined, dug deep, a stubborn network anchoring it against the storms. She felt a profound weight, a suffocating burden of what she might have to do. The sunlight, diffused by the leafy canopy, seemed unusually weak.