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Adams stood in the door, holding his briefcase and slowly moving his eyes over the empty room. It was decidedly empty. There was not one piece of furniture. Even the curtains were gone. Adams considered returning to the porch to check the address. Was this indeed his house? When he had left for work in the morning there had been furniture and curtains. But there was no mistaking it. Even without the furnishings, he knew it was his house.
Without closing the door, he walked slowly across the room and into the hall. Each room
-- the bedrooms, the dining room, the kitchen -- was empty. Only the den held a piece of furniture: a coffee table standing in front of the fireplace. It was incongruous
-- the low table with its curved legs and claw feet in an otherwise empty house
-- the house that had held his possessions for years.
Contrasting with the polished top of the table was an envelope. It seemed starkly white against the dark mahogany. Adams set his briefcase on the floor and carefully picked up the piece of paper, as though he feared it might burn him. His name was written across the front of the envelope in his
wife's handwriting. He stared at the flowing script for a moment and then opened it. Anger and shock flashed across his face
-- the first visible sign of emotion he had shown since entering the house. The envelope was empty.
END
(First published in
THE LONGNECK)
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