The old house, with its wildly overgrown garden, was silent, secretive. No-one knew the full story of what went on there. She’d gone and that was that. No-one knew where she was.
The ageless Marcia Swinton had lived there forever. There had been children. They’d left and never returned. All anyone remembered was Marcia, she was difficult to forget.
Bobbed hair, expertly manicured fingers, a plain gold chain sat at her throat, a neat watch on her wrist, rings on her fingers. She had a slenderness she maintained from her daily swims in the ocean. Her money contributed to various charities, she never attended events.
It was said there had been lovers over the years, but none stayed the course. Now Marcia had disappeared, and the house was in mourning.
Photo by David McElwee: https://www.pexels.com/photo/old-mailbox-on-the-yard-11736823/