The old man heard the gentle knock at his door.
He knew what it meant. He had fallen asleep in his chair. He glanced at the clock; nearly two in the morning. He would be happy to receive the reaper into his tiny flat. Happy to shuffle off his mortal coil. His last relapse had been the worst yet, and it told him that his time was short. He would welcome the man with the scythe. No more hospital stays. No more weeping visitors. For him, death would be a blessing.
He struggled up and made his way slowly and painfully to the front door.
Opening it, he found no redeemer, no liberator.
It was the batty woman from number seven, clutching an empty sugar bowl.
