Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. The words echoed in his head, *just a formality, really*. Mr. Davies, his neighbor, wanted the pine felled. He said it was blocking sunlight, dropping needles. He'd agreed, a shaky nod the only response he could manage.

The back of his neck prickled. The familiar thrum of the refrigerator seemed to morph into a relentless, rhythmic pulse. He paced the living room, glancing repeatedly at the looming silhouette of the tree through the patio doors. He kept adjusting the volume on the television, unable to find comfort in any program.

He found himself wandering into the backyard, touching the rough bark of the tree. His fingers traced the grooves, each ridge a silent testament to the years. He felt a profound sense of loss, a void he couldn’t name.