It was a spiderweb. A frozen explosion. A thousand tiny blades of glass holding hands in a perfect starburst. No hole. No point of impact. Just chaos, trapped between the sheets like a pressed flower of disaster.
We walked to the living room. The picture window faced the street—two panes of glass, double-glazed low-E argon-filled, the kind that costs a month’s mortgage. The outer pane was flawless. You could see your reflection in it, clear as a baptism. But the inner pane?
Tink.
I listened. It was a sound like a dry twig snapping inside a mattress. A soft, sad tink . Then another. Tink .
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