217 Babel Street | Apartment 7
Harry took the stairs two at a time, up to the second floor. He slowed as he walked along the corridor.
The more I worry, the worse it will be.
He stopped at the door. The lock turned easily, as on any other day.
I have knowledge of all the streets of Blackthorn and surrounding towns.
He called out his wife's name as he entered. His voice sounded strange, another man's voice trapped in his mouth.
I can drive from pickup to destination without any problem.
There was no answer to his call. He moved through into the living room. His wife's chair was lying on its side. Music played gently from the radio.
I know so little of her past, even after all these years. But love dwells above such things, above secrets, it has to do. There can only be acceptance. Only surrender.
Margaret's body lay sprawled on the carpet, halfway to the little decorative phone table they had picked up at the car-boot sale that time. Harry froze.
Just another day. Just another love song on the airwaves.
He bent down to her, holding her, willing that she wake from this sleep. That she would clasp her arms around him and pull him down to her, as she did that time...
As she did that time, where the two rivers joined as one, that day...
Margaret lay cold in his grasp. There was no breath from where her lips pressed against his face, his wet face. No breath.