She looked through the window while the frosty glass panes clattered silently against the wind. A sigh escaped from between the woman's lips as she tilted her head in thought, "He used to sing at the break of each dawn. His voice like..." She paused and her long thin fingers brushed the air as if willing grasp something beyond words, "..a soft golden thread effortlessly embroidering delicate yet mighty patterns." The woman drew in a slow breath of air, "Before laying down for the night, we used to sit by this table." Her one hand dragged gently along the furniture's old and coarse surface, "He told me tales other men shield their wives from." A light smile found it's way on her lips,"In fair honesty, he was as rough as his friends, yet whenever he returned home he carried a crown of flowers tied by himself. He laid it on my hair and pressed his bearded lips against mine..." Her eyes narrowed slightly, "Except that one time... when he had died."
She lowered her hand which was hanging a mouse from it's tail, allowing the critter's legs to reach the table while her other hand moved slowly to the side. An iron pan came to smash the creature's small form into the lines of the old wooden furniture.
The woman lifted the pan to rest it against her shoulder, a light mirthless smile spreading on her lips, "Thank you for listening."
