There was a peculiar nip in the cold air of that winter night in Chennai. The breeze that rose from nowhere danced through the open, grilled window. The twin pink colour, translucent, chiffon curtains separated, as if to make way for the breeze, and fell back in place afterwards. The Tanjore dancing woman on the study table began swaying her waist and neck languorously at the soft touch of the cool breeze. The sparkling plastic bead string curtains slowly oscillated as the breeze brushed past them and crossed the door into the drawing room. The wind chimes suddenly came to life and jingled softly, breaking the silence of the winter night.
First Lines Contest 2017: Embers Of The Pyre
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