Gemotions

He slumped onto the porch swing, the wood creaking a mournful tune. He avoided his phone, even the mindless scrolling felt like too much effort. The sky had been overcast all day, matching his inner landscape. A sharp, violent noise jolted him from his stupor.

Across the yard, the old maple, a landmark in the neighborhood, had succumbed. The sound of splintering wood resonated with the hollowness inside him.

He watched Mr. Peterson, the homeowner, walk out, a grimace on his face. He watched as he stared at his once-pristine yard, now a disaster.

He felt the sudden impulse to do something, to offer help, but the words wouldn't come. He just sat there, the swing's rhythmic squeak amplifying the silence and the heavy feeling in his core.

"Of course," Mr. Peterson muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Why not?"