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| Wintersweet |
The pictures on his wall looked old. Was he ever in Paris, she asked. He shrugged. The stamp, what was it, she asked. He shrugged. And the certificate, she asked. He shrugged. I'm starting to doubt this is your home. It isn't, he replied. Her heart started racing. Why did you bring me here? He chuckled. Is it your mother's home? He lowered his eyes and pointed. The door was closed. Don't go in there, she thought. You'll understand, he said. She opened the door. The woman was sitting, her rocking chair moving gently, her mummified fingers clutching a knife.
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