Gemotions

The pounding bass resonated through Maya’s apartment, vibrating the teacup on her coffee table. She closed her eyes, took a slow, deliberate breath, and focused on the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on the wall. It was a grandfather clock, and each tick felt weighty, measuring out the seconds.

She rose from the sofa, the movement slow and steady. Her shoulders were relaxed. She walked to the window and looked down. Mr. Henderson, a man whose yard was always immaculate, was standing at his gate, his face a thundercloud.

"Morning, Mr. Henderson!" she called out, her voice bright and cheery.