Gemotions

The tremor in his hands made it impossible to knot the tie. He fumbled with the silk, the familiar pattern mocking him. Across the way, the splintered remains of Mrs. Gable’s ancient oak lay sprawled, half across her fence. He hadn't even heard it fall.

He'd been inside, engrossed in a particularly vapid online game. The rumble in the earth, the earth-shattering crunch - all missed. Now, the guilt constricted his chest like a too-tight vest.

He swallowed hard and looked out the window. Mrs. Gable was surveying the damage, her face a mask of weary acceptance. He wanted to help, to offer something, anything, but his feet felt like lead. He’d just stay inside, and pretend he hadn't noticed.