Gemotions

The sun, a fiery orb, beat down on her. The air hung heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass. Mr. Garcia, his face etched with polite annoyance, stood at her gate. "About that willow," he began, his voice surprisingly gentle. "It's casting a shadow."

Her hand brushed the bark of the willow, rough and familiar. It had been there, a silent witness to her life, a comforting presence. She'd always been dependent. Now it was another thing to lose.

He spoke about practicality, about light, about his family. She could barely meet his eyes. Each sentence was a weight, pressing down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. He wanted an answer. She just nodded, her throat constricted, the willow’s shade suddenly oppressive.