Old Roses and Failing Eyesight, by Tyrean Martinson

Roses wither in murky water. The rug lies overturned where she tripped. I kneel down, check for a pulse, knowing as I touch her cold, slim wrist that it’s not there. The world has changed in the last fifty years, but death looks the same as it always has. The tech-bots sweep the room for fingerprints. I search with failing eyesight for anything abnormal and I’m rewarded with a scuff mark on the floor underneath the dining table which is shifted off-center from the chandelier above. I guess an old cop like me still has use in cases like this.

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