The Accidental Heart
The Silent Anchor
The late-October frost came down from the northern ridges without a single warning signal, turning the fallen maple leaves along the river road into crisp, silver plates. Inside the pavilion wing, the large stone fireplace was dead quiet, the only sound the slow, methodical tick of the brass mantle clock counting down the early morning hours.
Eleanor’s high-backed armchair sat completely empty near the hearth rug, her soft knit cream shawl folded in a perfect, uniform rectangle over the armrest.