Gemotions

The clatter of branches and splintering wood echoed through the quiet cul-de-sac. Sarah, already halfway through her second cup of coffee, slumped further down in her chair. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump of her own heart in her chest felt like a dull, unwelcome metronome.

She glanced out the window. Mr. Henderson’s ancient maple had finally succumbed. He was standing there, his shoulders slumped, surveying the wreckage. She considered ignoring the scene, letting him deal with it.

Then, she remembered the smell of his freshly baked bread that morning. Guilt, a familiar weight, settled in her stomach. She slowly rose, her limbs feeling like lead weights.