Gemotions

He stood there, frozen, the setting sun painting long shadows across the empty space where the oak had stood. His hands, usually steady, now trembled so badly he had to shove them into his pockets. The silence was deafening, broken only by the frantic hammering of his own heart. A knot formed in his stomach, twisting so tight it felt like a physical blow.

He wanted to run, to escape the sight, to pretend it hadn't happened. But his feet were rooted to the spot, refusing to obey his command. He closed his eyes, replaying the memory of the strong, young tree, its leaves rustling in the wind. A wave of nausea washed over him, a bitter taste rising in his throat.

"Bastards," he whispered, the word barely audible. His voice cracked with the force of his suppressed feelings. The light drained from the sky, and he was left alone, in the gathering dusk, with the vacant space and a hollow ache in his chest.