Gemotions

The splintering crack echoed through Clara's kitchen, making her jump. She clutched the mug of lukewarm tea, the porcelain cold against her sweaty palms. The wind had been picking up all morning, a relentless whisper against the windowpanes. Now, a boom, and then a heavy thud.

She peered out, heart hammering against her ribs. Mrs. Gable's ancient oak, the one that had been there longer than Clara, was lying across the lawn, its massive branches obscuring most of the house.

A tremor ran through her. It wasn’t her tree, but the sheer, brutal impact of the event sent a chill down her spine. The silence that followed felt wrong, heavy. She felt a need to do something, anything, to break the stillness. She found herself washing and rewashing the same plate, her knuckles white against the ceramic.