Lights off
The house was empty. The sound of keys unlocking the front door echoed through the vacant rooms.
Plastic sheets draped over the furniture shifted in the draft from a barely open window. Everything was packed away in boxes. There was no light—except for a single candle burning in the kitchen.
He stepped inside, removed his boots, and hung up his raincoat, still damp. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the house.
As he walked toward the kitchen, he heard someone crying. The candlelight cast the outline of a figure on the wall ahead.
Her head was buried in her hands, hair spilling forward to hide her face.
When he entered the kitchen, the shadow was gone. All that remained was the flickering candle, its light trembling against the walls.
He licked two fingers and snuffed it out.
In the darkness, the crying returned—this time from the next room—followed by the soft rustle of plastic over furniture.
He followed the sound and saw that one of the couches was on fire, smoke rising slowly where the candle had been.
