The splintered wood of the oak was a jagged accusation against the pale morning sky. Sarah clenched her jaw, the muscles in her neck locking tight. It was her neighbor, Mrs. Gable's, ancient tree, a landmark really, that had finally succumbed to the storm. And it had fallen – spectacularly – onto Mrs. Gable’s meticulously manicured lawn, thankfully. But the knowledge that it could have been her own house, that the fragile peace of her own sanctuary was at the mercy of the elements, was a chilling reminder. She took a sharp breath, her hands balling into fists, the nails digging crescent moons into her palms.
The police were already there, and Mrs. Gable, surrounded by concerned neighbors, was a picture of distress. Sarah found herself wanting to scream, to lash out at the absurdity of it all. Instead, she turned and walked back inside, the slam of her back door a harsh punctuation mark on the scene.
She found herself in the kitchen, staring at her own, perfect, untouched breakfast spread. The untouched eggs, the untouched butter. The mere thought of eating felt impossible, each bite a personal betrayal. She reached for her coat and walked out the back door, away from the scene.