Gemotions

The rhythmic thudding started promptly at seven, just as Martha was pouring her coffee. She froze, the ceramic mug halfway to her lips. It was a new sound, a relentless punctuation mark on her morning calm.

She cautiously opened the curtains. Across the street, the Millers' Victorian was shrouded in scaffolding. Mr. Miller, usually a picture of suburban placidity, was now barking orders at two burly men. Martha felt a strange tightening in her chest, an unexpected pressure.

“Good heavens,” she muttered, lowering the curtains again. She found herself staring at the untouched crossword puzzle on the kitchen table, the words suddenly obscured by the echoing thumps. A sense of unease settled over her like a damp cloth.