Gemotions

The wind howled, a banshee wailing through the gaps in the eaves. Harold gripped the porch railing, knuckles bone-white. The old oak next door, a gnarled sentinel, had been creaking all afternoon. Every groan was a personal insult, a challenge. He’d eyed it with a growing unease, especially since Mrs. Gable was out of town.

He saw the first crack, a spiderweb of wood splitting across the trunk. His heart hammered. Harold’s gaze fixed on it, unblinking, as if sheer force of will could hold the giant upright. He braced, anticipating the inevitable.

He had the phone already in his hand, ready to dial. The crash, when it came, was a thunderclap. He was on the phone immediately, dialing the fire department before the dust even settled. He stood at the edge of his property line, arms crossed, surveying the damage. He wasn't budging until he was sure everything was taken care of.