Broken Glass

She looked through the window in front of her. The wind blew decisively, making the tree outside shiver violently. Silence resumed but it offered the woman no comfort. She spent a few more moments looking through the frosty glass before she rose to her feet. She walked towards the door, her steps so graceful that she may have been gliding across the marble floor.

She entered a large corridor, dimly lit. The halls of the mansion seemed to be filled with an emptiness that nothing could fill. Oil paintings, hanging on the walls, came alive in the candlelight, their lifeless eyes following her every step. Yet she continued her lonely stroll, unnerved by the shadows that seemed to come to life when you turned your back on them. The air began to freshen up as she approached the living room.

Moonlight flooded in through the large French windows and its beams were caught by a grand chandelier, the ornamental piece and pride of the living room. It cast a deathly pall on the furniture in the room. Walking past the ornate armchairs, the woman reached for the door. It opened, creaking reluctantly. The air, now clear, was as cold as ice. The wind blew no more and the trees around the house stood still, surveying the ground coldly.

She continued walking and stopped at the edge of the courtyard, in front of a solitary slab of stone. The woman bent closer to read the inscription. "Here lies Lady Alice Penderfield, who lived a contented life and whose passing was eased by a bed of roses. She will be missed by her ever-loving husband Lord Penderfield." A wry smile eased her sharp features, followed by an icy laugh that cut through the night air. "What good is a bed of roses after sleeping on shards of broken glass?" she whispered to herself, as she walked into the desolate night.