A thin layer of dust, like silk, lay over the dim apartment. Thin rays of light filtered through the windows, peeking through the holes in the once regal, now ratty curtains. Gold thread tied tightly held the heavy drapes to the windows, making them difficult to push open. Dust outlined the folds on the floor.
Silver spiders spun light strings of silk in the shadows of the fabric and starved when no flittering wings caught in their alluring traps.
On the window sill above the sink, she had lined up little glass bottles in a row. Light filtered through the eerie green and brown glass and made the kitchen feel less real. More romantic, almost. A thin thread held to the window glass, electrified and suspended.
She hadn't lived there for long. A friend of the family had died earlier that year, and the apartment, 1112C, had been left to fold into itself, rest in its unimposing, unsupposing state.
Sidda turned the keys in the lock, pushed the hollow door open and dropped her bag on the floor next to the piles of crumpled paper. She was alone.
4 years ago