Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as Amelia walked down the familiar path. She hadn't visited her childhood home in years. Anticipation fluttered in her chest, a nervous excitement. She rounded the corner, expecting the sight of the rambling Victorian house, but her breath hitched. Where the ancient oak, planted by her own small hands, once stood, now sat a raw stump. Her hand flew to her mouth.

She stumbled forward, her legs suddenly heavy. The clean cut of the saw felt like a personal violation. A wave of disorientation washed over her. She knew, rationally, that things changed, that trees aged and sometimes needed to be removed, but seeing the empty space where the oak had been was like losing a friend all over again.

“What in the world…?” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. She circled the stump, her fingers tracing the rough wood. It was gone. All of it.