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The rooms have grown darker since Laura died. Today even the kitchen is charcoal grey. It is not my imagination. I have not succumbed to metaphors. I have seen it happen day by day. And today is the seventh day. Blackness leaches through every egg-blue strip of wallpaper, into every flower-nubbled cornice, across every honey-brown floorboard. It has become ordinary, this seeping darkness, like watching a housewife roll out pastry. Like watching another of my photographs swim into monochrome life.
Carol Farrelly lives and teaches in Edinburgh. She holds a DPhil on the novels and readership of Thomas Hardy. Her first short story was recently published in Scottish literary magazine Random Acts of Writing.