Gemotions

He’d driven to his childhood home, a pilgrimage he hadn’t made in years. The house looked smaller, the paint peeling. But the tree – that’s what mattered. It was supposed to be a beacon of permanence in a world of constant change. He expected to feel a surge of familiarity. Instead, his breath hitched. The space where the old willow had swayed in the breeze was now an empty patch of dirt.

He ran a hand over his face, as if to wipe away the scene. The world tilted slightly. He found himself backing away slowly, as if the space was a predator. His legs felt like lead. He thought about his late parents. He would see their faces again. His throat tightened, a constriction.