The clock hands ticked to four o’clock. The clock chimed.

The three large goldfish in the bulb-shaped bowl swam around aimlessly, nosing for flakes of food.

The green curtains twitched hypnotically in the near-still stifling breeze coming through the shutters.

Cars on the main road could be heard but went unnoticed as white-noise by the residents of Hampton Lane.

Ms. Vogler was still as a glacier. Cold as one. Dead. Sticky blood pooled around her sliced wrists. An expression of fulfillment took over her lifeless face, glassy eyes staring at the book she had been reading.

It lay open a few feet from her being, looking very noticeable on the flashy, lime carpet.

Under the door, in a pool of kaleidoscopic light coming from a stained glass window, was an accumulating pile of letters and newspapers.

The phone rang. It rang some more then went to voicemail.

It took a week for someone to come and hammer at the otherwise quiet door, Ms. Vogler’s body decaying and forgotten.

 

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