Gemotions

The rhythmic thumping stopped. Amelia froze mid-air, a paintbrush suspended above the canvas. Her heart, a frantic hummingbird, hammered against her ribs. She was certain the elderly Mr. Henderson, whose apartment shared a wall with hers, hadn't complained about her art. He usually only commented on the music, something she was particularly careful with. A knock echoed from the door.

She slowly lowered the brush, her hand trembling. It was the first time in months she felt a pang of worry about her artwork. "Coming!" she called out, trying to sound casual, even cheerful.

Mr. Henderson stood there, his face a mask of disapproval. "Amelia, dear," he began, his voice surprisingly firm, "the noise from your… creative endeavors has been a bit excessive lately." Her jaw went slack. The artwork was typically very quiet.