@onefromdreams
The night is inky black, shrouded in cloud and fog that presses wet on the windowpanes and smothers the moon. Inside the room is no better, until there is the soft shuffling of a blanket and the sound of a candle being lit. The tiny flame does little to pierce the darkness, but just manages to reach the figure, sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, who was not there when she went to bed. His fingers are laced on his stomach, elbows on the chair’s arms, as he reclines in it like he has every right to be there.
Whether she has woken in the course of nature or because even asleep some part of her has sensed the danger, he does not know, but suspects the latter; no one sleeps very long with him in the room.
Her back is turned; he is smiling. He begins with a simple observation.
“You sleep rather soundly for a murderer.”
