Gemotions

The invitation came, as it always did, with a manicured hand and a smile that never quite reached the eyes. "Dearest Agnes, that old oak is simply blocking my sunlight, you see." Arthur’s voice was the familiar velvet over a rusty hinge. Agnes took a shaky breath, the air in her chest suddenly too thick.

She ran a hand over the chipped paint of her porch swing, the wood familiar and comforting. The oak was a sentinel, a silent witness to her life, a life now circumscribed by the borders of her yard.

“I… I’ll have to think about it, Arthur,” Agnes managed, her voice a thin thread. The sun, usually a welcome guest, felt like a spotlight on her face. The idea of the oak disappearing, the space it occupied opening up, sent a cold shiver down her spine. The world, already too vast, seemed to be growing.