Gemotions

He heard the gravel crunch under Mr. Henderson's boots as he approached. A tremor went through Mark, a deep, unsettling vibration. He squeezed the gardening shears in his hand, the metal digging into his palm. The tree, their tree, the one that had witnessed their childhood games and sheltered them from summer rain, cast a long, protective shadow over the property line.

Mr. Henderson cleared his throat. "Say, Mark, you got a minute?" His voice was overly friendly, too hearty. Mark swallowed, the dryness in his throat making it difficult. "About that tree…" Mr. Henderson trailed off, gesturing towards the towering oak. Mark's vision blurred slightly, as if he was struggling to focus. He found himself avoiding Mr. Henderson's gaze, his eyes darting to the leaves, the branches, anywhere but the man's expectant face.