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.
Or let something in.
The call came at 3:47 AM, which is the hour reserved for drunks, liars, and bad news. On the other end, my tenant, Mrs. Gable, spoke in a whisper that somehow managed to be shrill. broken double pane window
That’s when I saw it. Inside the crack, wedged deep in the gray seal of the spacer bar, was a single yellow jacket wasp. Dead. Dried. Its wings still angled for takeoff. It was a spiderweb
I listened. It was a sound like a dry twig snapping inside a mattress. A soft, sad tink . Then another. Tink . No hole