Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it a mess. The paper from Mr. Johnson, taped to the door, quivered slightly in the wind. *Could we chat about that old oak? It’s blocking my view, and I'd like to plant some roses.* The words, so polite, seemed to drip with a subtle threat.

He felt a sudden, sharp pressure behind his eyes, a familiar warning. He kicked at a loose stone on the path, sending it skittering across the dry lawn. That oak, a witness to countless sunsets, was a part of him.

He pictured the bare, sterile space that would remain. The sun would blaze, the birds would flee, and a piece of his heart would be ripped away. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. The thought made his chest feel tight.

He stalked back inside, the slam of the door echoing through the quiet house.