![]() ![]() “Yes,” Schwimmer stated, his eyes still locked on the horrible wound in his wife’s neck. “Noam.” The voice was a pleasant baritone, lightly accented, seemingly only an inch from his left ear. That his wife of some 30-odd years lay on their bed in such a ghastly state of disrepair was only a distant thought. It only vaguely registered on his consciousness that a great gaping hole had been torn in her neck, from which blood and a curious clear fluid slowly seeped. Her blue-gray hair was in perfect order, her expensive lavender pantsuit pristine. His eyes adjusted their depth of field, and he found himself focused on the still form of his wife, Miriam. Schwimmer dared to do nothing else but stare at the empty space where her face-and those eyes!-had been just an instant before. ![]() The woman faded away like an apparition in a dream. ![]() Schwimmer was unbothered by this, so captivated was he by the silver-in-black gaze that held him in its sway. ![]()
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