Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the bleakness in David's gut. The crash had woken him, a thunderclap of splintering wood and rending earth. He'd gone to the window, expecting a storm, only to see Mrs. Gable's ancient sycamore lying across her garage. He'd seen her, sometimes, tending her roses, her back bent with the years.
He knew she would be devastated. The tree had been there longer than anyone could remember. He thought of offering help, but the words felt like a tight knot in his throat. He’d barely spoken to another human being for days.
The television flickered, its meaningless noise a poor substitute for conversation. He paced his small apartment, the worn rug soft beneath his feet. The silence in his apartment was a physical thing, pressing down on him. A sudden craving for the taste of someone else's voice, any voice, ran through him.
He stared out at the rain-swept scene. He watched, unable to move, as Mrs. Gable, a small, solitary figure, emerged from her house. She stood there, beneath the deluge, looking at what was lost. He turned away from the window, and, feeling a strange lightness in his chest, decided to find a good book to read.