She had to hand it to them, they were good, they were wily; she didn’t know how they did it, but they made one big mistake that gave their game away—everything happened at the same time, in the same way each day.
07:56, outside her window the little red-breasted bird alights on snowy branches, it ruffles its feathers disturbing the snow before landing on the empty feeder; the flakes against the window settle momentarily before melting and sliding slowly towards the sill.
Seven minutes after the bird flits away a white-haired, rueful man enters, he says he’s her husband, he says he has pills to help her ‘remember’—she remembers fine thank you very much, she says; she will refuse and, as always, two strange men will later come and cry by her bedside calling her mother.
Written for Three Line Tales, Week 157.
Image credit: Clever Visuals via Unsplash.