The sound dragged them out of slumber at two in the goddamn morning.
It began with a screech, thin and metallic, like fingernails on ceramic. Ming jerked awake, heart pounding. Beside her, Daniel fumbled for his phone, the flashlight casting a weak glow across their still-unfamiliar bedroom.
The sound came again. Long. Slow.
“Jesus,” Daniel muttered. He pulled back the window curtain. A branch swept against the siding, flailing in the wind, bright in the moonlight. An oak’s crown loomed over the roofline, shadow spilling across the lawn.
“It’s just the neighbor’s tree,” he said, relief mixed with irritation.
Ming stared past his shoulder at the jagged motion of the leaves. The branch shook faintly at each gust. She imagined the wood gnawing through paint, through plaster, clawing through their newly built house.
Neither of them slept much after that.
The next morning, Daniel insisted they go next door together. Their next-door neighbor’s house was small, its yellow paint sun-faded, its porch sagging under the weight of years of use.
The door creaked open and a woman peered out. She had the tired demeanor of someone who had lived long enough not to need to bother pretending. Her hair was silver, braided and pulled into a knot.
“Morning,” Daniel said, shifting his weight. “We’re your new neighbors, sorry to bother you. Daniel, Ming.” He pointed to his wife, who gave a small wave.
“Dorothy. You the couple moved in last month,” she said, more statement than question. Her voice was low and steady.
“Yes,” Ming said. “We just wanted to mention it: there’s this big oak out front, and one of its branches…it’s hitting our wall at night.”
Dorothy looked past them at the tree. Its trunk split like a river delta, branches thick with green. She didn’t speak immediately, letting her gaze trace the branches until it settled on the limb angling guiltily toward Ming and Daniel’s house.
“Mm. That old thing’s been leaning for years.” She chuckled softly. “I don’t climb ladders anymore. And I don’t have the money to pay the rates they’re charging these days for landscaping. Fixed income, you know.”
Her eyes returned to them, not sharp but searching, as if she were waiting to see what kind of neighbors they would become.
Ming swallowed. “Of course. We understand. We just thought… maybe…” She trailed off.
Daniel cleared his throat. “Well. Thanks for your time.”
The woman’s mouth twitched into something like a smile. “You folks have a good day now.” She closed the door with care, not a slam but not gently either.
Walking back, Ming muttered, “She knows it’s a problem.”
The next afternoon, a beat-up pickup pulled up to the curb while Ming was unpacking groceries. Two men hopped out, speaking to each other in fast Spanish. Their shirts were faded, their jeans coated with sawdust.
Ming stepped onto the porch just in time to see Daniel hand one of them a few folded bills.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“Tree guys,” Daniel said shortly. “Cheaper than anything on Google. They’ll take care of things.”
The men pulled a dented ladder from the truck bed. One steadied it against the oak while the other climbed, saw in hand. The ladder wobbled in the breeze, and Ming’s stomach tightened at the sight of the man as he climbed out onto the branch.
The saw screeched into the wood. Dust rained down in pale streams, catching the light like sparkles. The man paused to adjust his grip, exchanged a few short words with his partner, then cut again, harder.
The branch cracked. For one moment it clung stubbornly to the trunk, then twisted free and plummeted, hitting the lawn with a thud that shook Ming’s knees.
The men didn’t linger. They heaved the branch into their truck, shoved the ladder next to it, and tied the load down with rope. Neither looked toward the grandmother’s house.
The truck rattled off, leaving only the smell of sap and gasoline.
Ming stood on the walkway staring at the oak. Where the limb had one stretched, a raw stump jutted outward, pale and wet, already weeping.
Daniel brushed past her, carrying more of the groceries. “Problem solved,” he said.
The grandmother’s curtains shifted slightly, as though someone had been watching.
The wind picked up. There was no scraping, no screech, only the quiet whisper of leaves overhead.
Ming thought it was worse, somehow.