He walked over with only the best of intentions.
He had spotted Mrs. Jeffries through his kitchen window rocking away on her favorite wooden chair like she did every afternoon. It was dark now though. And getting cold. And she was still out there on her front porch.
Surely it couldn’t hurt to find out why.
But now he stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at his elderly neighbor, his heart refusing to beat. He saw her empty eye sockets, her waxy skin, her bony hands gripping the wooden chair arms tight.
And still the chair rocked…
The Weekday One Hundred 