Gemotions

The tremor in his hand was subtle, but he noticed it. Mr. Peterson, affable as ever, had asked about the birch. *Too close to the house, potential for damage.* He tried to sound agreeable, but the words felt foreign in his mouth.

He kept replaying the conversation in his head, dissecting his own responses. A nervous laugh, a hasty agreement. He tried to focus on his work, but the numbers on the screen blurred, the spreadsheets swam.

Later, he went outside and stood beneath the birch. He ran his hand over its smooth, white bark, feeling a connection that was both inexplicable and essential. The wind whispered through the leaves, a sound that now felt like a lament.