I doubt that death will come. Death?

Could it be that the days, so long, will end?

That’s how I daydream, calm, quiet. Could it be that death is a bluff? A trick of life? Is it persecution?

And that’s how it is.

The day had begun at four in the morning, she’d always risen early, immediately finding the flask of coffee in the little pantry. She drank a lukewarm cup and was about to leave it for Augusta to wash, when she remembered that old Augusta had asked for a month off to see her son.