Tomorrow she was going to die. It was a certainty she couldn’t explain. She sat up in bed, thinking about what it was she would like to do in her final hours here on earth. She felt that she should fill them with profoundness to give them the respect they deserved. Then, she lay back down, thinking, I’d much rather just sleep.
She woke a few hours later to find the room dissolved into the moonlight. Crickets sang gustily, the rhythm broken once in a while by the sound of animals she did not recognise. Death would be like this, she thought—still. She would never have to think another thought or feel another emotion. Sixty years of life wasn’t a bad deal, though she couldn’t remember anything of significance that she had done. She put on her glasses. She furrowed her brow, trying to pick out the worthwhile moments of her life. But they wouldn’t come and she turned and switched on the bedside lamp.
It wasn’t very bright. It gave off a faint red glow that didn’t quite reach all the corners of the room. A half-finished book lay face down on the night stand—another twenty pages to go. If she didn’t read it now, she would never know how it ended. She smiled. She liked that feeling—to die without tying things up neatly.
Her throat felt parched. She poured herself a glass of water. She felt the cool water travel all the way to her stomach. She adjusted herself into a more comfortable position, took off her glasses and placed it on the night stand. She moved her head to the side and closed her eyes.