Anyone looking into Esther’s house, through yellowed sheers covering grimy glass panes, would see a parlor filled with dusty furniture.
A bowl of spoiled milk sits by the cold hearth, a treat for a nonexistent cat.
An ornate Cabriole sofa upholstered in faded red velvet sits in front of the oriel window. Once a vivid rose is now a wilted carnation. A layer of fine powder covers everything, settling deep into wooden cervices and fabric folds. Everything except the Queen Anne chair occupied by a contemplative Esther.
For the life of her, she couldn’t remember what happened to the cat.