I approached the steps of Mr. Abercrombie’s apartment that felt caged in all seriousness and inactivity. The window sills appeared pale and motionless.

“Windowpanes of morose.” I said and advanced towards the bell. The bell was cold and the button reminded me of a winter night. All the flowers still and sleeping after encountering the eye of a blizzard, a snowstorm. The roads lying as there is zero guarantee of the cracks and parchments on them coming to life. Monuments and buildings lacking the redundancy of glowing and oozing out a superfluous amount of lights. The bell felt the same.

I was welcomed by the maid. It’s funny how your precious master has died the previous night but you still are working the next day with those same intentions you had the previous night. Silent ones, crooked ones, funny ones, doesn’t matter, intentions are intentions.

I could see that the nook of the room has been consoling the widow. She was found there sitting motionless and pale. Emma was such a cherubic one. Up and running. Seraphic, saintly and active. Her pointy nose was the best amongst all the features she carried. The eyes came next. Timid marbles attached in a beautiful chunk of soft dough. They danced with everything that came across. Playful in this moment, mysterious in the other.

“Sorry for your loss.” I broke the rectilinear vision of Emma’s eyes that were transfixed by the indolence and the idleness of the floor. They had such prepossessing fancy marble floors.   

“Thank you. It’s alright.” Swift came the reply. Her eyes were still transfixed.

“He was so lively yesterday. Buying things, dealing, negotiating. Who and why!?” I pretty much emphasized on the last three words. Couldn’t help, but emphasize.

“Not a clue!” Emma broke out.

I stood there making sure the tears don’t flood the room. Or the house. Or the fancy marble floor. The head has felt the hands’ embrace cusped between the arches of distress and feelings of torment. I wanted to console her the same way I consoled my dear Margaret. You see, when a woman weeps, the whole world seems to be weeping with her. The tears that fall aren’t just tears. They are marks. Scars on this terrestrial’s skin. Never make a woman weep. But Margaret had to go. She had to leave.

I lay one of my hands on her shoulder. The silk velvety dark gown that she was wearing felt tender but it had that feeling of being in flames. My fingers felt the anguish of her garment. What a poor lady!

“I must proclaim my leave now. Leave you here with nothing but my absence, but if you are in need of anything, I’m just down the street. Take care, Emma.” I said.

“Thank you! Much obliged.” She replied. I guess it wasn’t her barren mouth speaking but her drooping eyelids and flooded cornea and the exhausted iris.

As I turned around to leave, I saw something that moved me. I saw a vase. Object of normalcy. But the vase cupped that same mammoth antenna, that same countenance of silver I was looking at for the past week. Oh, why did you leave me? Where have you been? I was so dead without you.

I had to leave.

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