Gemotions

The wind howled, a mournful cry that mirrored the ache in Martha's chest. She peeked through the blinds again, the gap barely wide enough to see Mr. Henderson's property. The oak, a behemoth of a tree, lay sprawled across his lawn like a fallen giant. But it wasn't the fall that bothered her; it was the timing. The storm had been predicted for days. And Mr. Henderson, usually out tending his petunias, hadn't been seen since yesterday afternoon. A prickling sensation crawled across her scalp. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, eyes narrowed.

She grabbed her phone and hesitated. Who would she even call? The police? About what? A fallen tree? But the feeling intensified, a knot twisting in her stomach.

Her hand trembled as she dialed the number for the local gardening service. “Yes, hello,” she said, her voice sounding unnaturally high-pitched. "I was wondering... do you offer tree removal services?"