Gemotions

The note was tucked under the windshield wiper, a flimsy yellow rectangle accusing her of excessively loud music. Her eyes bounced between the neat, printed words and the gleaming red of her vintage Mustang. The air seemed to thicken, making it difficult to breathe. She hadn't even *played* any music since last night. A cold shiver ran down her spine, despite the late afternoon sun. Her fingers fumbled with the car door handle.

She hurried to her front porch and felt the familiar sensation of unreality. The perfectly manicured lawn, the meticulously arranged flowerbeds – it all seemed to tilt. The complaint mentioned specific times; times she’d been… silent. Her knees felt weak as she leaned against the doorframe, replaying the last 24 hours in her mind, searching for an error. The only sounds she remembered was the gentle hum of the refrigerator.

She couldn’t understand the accusation.