Gemotions

The hammering started before dawn, a sharp, jarring intrusion. Then, the polite knock on the door, and the inevitable request. Mr. Olsen stood on the porch, his face apologetic but firm. "It's just the one branch," he said, gesturing towards the offending limb.

The world seemed to sharpen, the colors growing more intense, the shadows deeper. His jaw tightened. He found himself clenching his fists. The thought of the tree, of anything being changed, felt like a direct assault on the tranquility he craved. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. The air was heavy, the silence of the woods, now a void.