It was a typical Saturday afternoon in the small town of San Francisco. The sun was shining and the birds were chirping. I was in my bedroom, reading a book, when suddenly the ground began to shake. At first, I thought it was just someone jumping on the bed, but then I realized it was an earthquake.
I immediately jumped out of bed and ran to the doorway, trying to find a safe place to stand. The shaking became more intense and I could hear the sound of breaking glass and falling objects. I grabbed onto the doorframe, holding on for dear life as the room seemed to sway back and forth.
It felt like the shaking went on for an eternity, but in reality it was probably only a few minutes. As suddenly as it started, the earthquake stopped. I let out a sigh of relief and quickly checked for any injuries. Luckily, I was unscathed.
I ran outside to see if my neighbors were okay and to assess the damage. My street was a mess, with broken windows and fallen branches everywhere. Many of the houses had suffered some kind of damage, whether it be cracks in the foundation or fallen chimneys.
I quickly grabbed my phone and called my family to make sure they were okay. It turns out that they had experienced the earthquake as well, but luckily they were all safe.
After the initial shock of the earthquake wore off, my neighbors and I worked together to clean up the debris and assess the damage. It was a scary and stressful experience, but in the end, I was grateful to have survived it and to have the support of my community.
