Gemotions

The shrill shrieks of laughter from the party downstairs sliced through the quiet of the evening. Amelia imagined Mr. Peterson, her reclusive neighbor, curled up in his armchair, wincing with every outburst. He hated loud noises.

She had heard him coughing earlier, a dry, rasping sound. She’d made a pot of tea this morning, and thought of offering him some. The thought suddenly felt more pertinent.

She walked towards the window, glancing down at the revelry. The music was deafening. She knew she had to intervene. She took a deep breath, went downstairs. She had to, because she understood.