Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the empty space. A gaping wound in the familiar landscape. He’d driven out here every year since he left home, to see it. Now, just a freshly-cut stump remained, the wood pale against the darkening earth. His hands, usually steady, trembled slightly as he ran a finger along the coarse grain.

He backed away, a hollow feeling blossoming in his chest. His breath hitched, a silent, involuntary gasp. The air seemed thin, insufficient. He jammed his hands into his pockets, but the gesture offered little comfort. His eyes kept darting around, as if expecting something else to be missing.

He spun on his heel, then back again, unable to find a comfortable position. The silence of the woods, usually so soothing, now pressed in on him, heavy and oppressive. He wished, with a sudden, aching intensity, that he hadn’t come.