The morning sun filtered through the expensive lace curtains, casting bright, cheerful streaks across the master bedroom. But for the merchant, the light brought no warmth.
He lay exactly as he had been the night before—rigid, paralyzed, and staring into the empty air above him. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and completely dry, fixed in a permanent state of shock. He didn't blink. He didn't even seem to breathe.
Beside him, his wife began to stretch gracefully as she sat up, the fine silk of her nightgown rustling softly. The morning light was golden and warm, casting a deceptive glow of peace over the room. She murmured sleepily, her voice thick with the comfort of a restful night.
"Darling? Wake up, you're going to be late for the opening."
She reached over to shake his shoulder, but as soon as her skin touched his, she recoiled. He was cold, not dead, but chilled to the marrow by a lingering frost that shouldn't exist in a heated room.
"Dear? What's wrong? Look at me!"
