Another Wednesday, another Friday Fictioneers. We might all be singing the same notes but the beauty is they’re definitely not in the same order….
Something was different; the light was just that little bit darker, the air just that little bit thicker. It was nearly time.
Dust and neglect settled on her chest and a fit of coughing brought her forward. Pulling the tissue back from her mouth, the fresh blood rippled wide across the fabric. Soon, she thought.
For months she’d waited. Waited and listened for the music.
She closed the door and moved away. Maybe it was just her memories floating down the stairwell, or perhaps the wind.
As the footsteps faded, spectral fingers once more teased across the ebony. Death has a melody all its own.