Gemotions

He watched from his window as Mr. Reynolds approached, a clipboard in his hand. The enormous oak, a landmark for the neighborhood, was the target, its branches reaching over the property line. He knew what was coming. The tree was a symbol, not of strength, but of the passing of time and of people.

His stomach clenched. He hadn't left his apartment in days, the shadows of the room his only companions. The silence, so profound, was broken by Mr. Reynolds's hammering on his door. He wasn't even going to try and fight the man.

The man talked about insurance, about liability, about aesthetics. Each word was a nail in the coffin. He felt himself shrinking, becoming invisible, evaporating like morning dew. He felt the sting of loss, not of the tree, but of his own life.