They say storms come when the sky has something to say. That night, the sky had a lot on its mind. I was brewing a pot of tea in my kitchen when the first crack of thunder rattled the windows. I’m not one to scare easily, but how the wind howled through the trees outside sent a shiver down my spine. My old house creaked in protest as if bracing itself for the worst.Then, I heard it: a sharp, unmistakable crash coming from the living room. “What in the world?” I muttered, dropping the spoon back into the sugar bowl. I rushed through the hallway, my heart pounding as the storm raged on outside. When I turned the corner, my worst fear was confirmed. The front window, the one with the view of Mrs. Hutchinson’s rose garden, had given in. Shards of glass were scattered everywhere, glittering dangerously in the dim light.“Oh, dear Lord,” I whispered, pressing a hand to my chest. For a moment,
I just stood there, frozen, watching the rain pour in through the broken window. Then, reality snapped back, and I hurried to grab an old blanket to throw over the mess. There wasn’t much more I could do with the storm still tearing through the night, but I did my best to keep the rain out. The next morning, the world looked a little less menacing. The storm had passed, leaving a mess in its wake, but at least the sun was shining.I knew I couldn’t leave the window like that, not with the neighborhood kids always running around. One wrong step and someone would end up hurt. So, I picked up the phone and called Carl. “Hello, Carl? It’s Nancy,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Nancy, what’s going on?” Carl’s voice came through, warm but a bit weary, like he’d been up all night too. “Well, the storm did a number on my front window. It’s completely shattered. Could you come by and take a look?”
