Gemotions

The world felt muted. Gray. Thomas shuffled to the window, the floorboards groaning in protest. He saw the uprooted maple, Mr. Peterson’s prize specimen, lying like a broken toy across the lawn. The sight didn't register. His mind was miles away, fixed on the crushing disappointment of the morning’s news.

His jaw clenched. The air in his chest felt thick, hard to pull in. Each breath was a conscious effort. He’d ignored his sister’s call earlier, the sound of her cheerful greeting grating on him. He hadn’t touched his breakfast, the eggs and toast left cold on the counter.

He found himself slowly heading outside, kicking at a loose stone on the path. He didn't offer to help. He only stood at the edge of his property, watching the aftermath, a detached observer.