Opal Brausch sat quietly at her kitchen table. A kitchen which Mrs. Brausch never expected to step foot in ever again. It was dimly lit. Mrs. Brausch, not a woman to leave loose ends untied, had taken the precaution of having the services cut off in preparation for her being dead. Luckily the water was from a well, and the gas was not yet disconnected, so she was able to make a pot of tea.

Shards of sunlight slid silently across the aging cabinets, yellowed from years of sunlight, and an imperfect manufacturing material that was popular in the 1940’s.

“This is excellent tea, Opal,” Ginger said meekly. She was sipping from a tiny cup that was part of a miniature tea set Opal had received as a Christmas gift years ago.

“Oh,” Mrs. Brausch said quietly. “Thank you.”

Another sip. And silence.

“So, when I fell into the creek when I was eleven?” Opal asked, still wrapping her head around it all.

“I pulled you out,” Ginger replied.

“Oh,” Opal said. “Well that was nice of you.”

“Yes,” Ginger said. “It was.”