Quiet Mornings

Mornings in Windwick were usually quiet, and this one was just as quiet as the quiet in Windwick usually was. It didn’t always suit me particularly, since I lived a fairly active lifestyle. Brooks, even, was one of the youngest there, and he probably just hit sixty.

Anyway, the next quiet morning the quiet was slightly disturbed (but not so much as to seem un-quiet) when the same emaciated canine, ribs poking through shriveled skin, tramped up my walk while I was quietly watering the front bushes. I frowned and went inside, cursing myself for falling for it again. The dog was waiting for me when I emerged, throwing it a biscuit. It yipped happily and trotted away.

I sighed, knowing I had done a good deed, but somewhere deep down, I remembered what Brooks had said. Yes, he might have been just a little crazy….alright, all the neighbors said so. But still. The nagging doubt kept creeping into my mind.

The next morning, was, contrarily, not quiet.

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