Gemotions

The clatter of the dishes echoed in Sarah’s otherwise silent house. The smell of stale coffee clung to the air. Her neighbor, a Mr. Peterson, had been waiting outside. He gestured towards the old willow tree at the edge of her lawn. "It’s dropping a lot of… debris," he said, his tone carefully neutral. Sarah ran a hand through her hair, a gesture she realized was becoming increasingly frequent.

She looked at the tree, its graceful branches weeping towards the ground. The thought of its removal created a hollow ache within her. "Yes," she agreed, the word catching in her throat. She found she couldn’t speak further, the pressure building behind her eyes, the familiar feeling of being overwhelmed by everything, by nothing.