Gemotions

He had woken in a cold sweat. The insistent hammering, the rhythmic thud of a chainsaw, echoed in his dreams. Now, sunlight, harsh and unforgiving, sliced through the gap in the curtains. Mr. Henderson's request to take down the oak felt like a personal assault. "Just making things easier," Mr. Henderson had offered casually, his eyes bright with a detached kind of glee.

He pulled on his oldest jeans, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar. The kitchen smelled stale, the air thick with unspoken grievances. He saw his reflection in the window, his face a mask of exhaustion. The image made him want to smash the glass.

Outside, the tree stood tall, its branches a protective canopy. He felt the familiar pressure building behind his eyes. He had to do something. Anything. But what?