The preceding tale, as it happened, proceeded towards the writer upon the general route of the petty town talk. Feeling half-quenched by the apparent buzz, (to be blamed solely on the peculiar inquisitiveness of the writer) hence it happened that the story once again was absorbed, evidently providing a much absolute procession of facts, through the obliging mother; Mrs. Sheila Jones’s account. Which happened to be precisely thus:

Through the whole week, they told her she does not want to meet her. They told her she would not eat, she would not sleep. Sheila tried to tell them and in turn, to herself, that she was her mother. The families, both of hers and theirs, at last, appeared profusely lost at Mrs. Jones adamant and consistent demands, and eventually, she was to cross the door. Summoning a loose candle and some light in her spirit, thereafter, the mother moved the oaken door.

The door, lately, had been a passage to entreat a guest, into the chamber of the recently widowed daughter of Mrs. Jones, who was by birth simply pronounced, Nora. The eldest daughter, Nora Jones, both by the writer’s common study and the town’s long watch, came out to be a very healthy and a sufficiently jolly being to observe and accompany. Therefore, upon the news of her husband’s untimely and unfortunate departure, almost the whole town, witnessed a range of lethargic and gloomy demeanors; in the visages of the frequent folk. However, of which it was duly noted by the writer that the former expression was predominant and was expressed weekly.

At the first foot of Mrs. Jones, the candlelight in measured steps, along hers, slowly dared to discover more blankness. The room in which the daughter lay was blessed with two unusual traits. Firstly, it encompassed, in its small rectangular circuit, a supreme form of darkness. The dark that stored itself in that room, quoting her view was, “one a soul never saw and never shall wish to see”. Then the room, seemed to situate itself in such specific a position, that every probable attempt to allocate windows would have appeared utterly useless to the builders. Thus, Mrs. Jones was nurtured by a single window, which apparently, was half closed and at its epitomic strength provided only a single streak of moonlight. Night’s dull curtains, still spat a few streaks upon a cracked mirror, and in the haze, she saw a form.

At length, resolving her own self, she again moved her foot. A shard cried under her slipper, the open window passed a howl and the candlelight blew away. At the dark sight, courage was indeed in necessity, as the awfulness looked upon, evoked such a strong sense of instant flight that of the blood, only bloodiness was comprehended.

Amongst bleeding bangles and sobbing anklets sacredly mewing, the mother in a dumb stare was looking upon the form that resembled little of her daughter. An exposition of instant disgust mingled with inexplicable wonder, slowly convulsing into a pool of gloom, heed and at last, strength. Sheila was ready. Norah lying on the cot, the entire time, was looking intently at some long lost ruin of hope, tilting her head and with her eyes pointed straight at the singular window. Sheila now eased herself at the side of the cot. In an unspoken request, she produced her tending hands at the head of her Norah.

Both the ladies had their eyes opened yet none of them saw anything during the whole passage of that night. The mother, in utmost regularity, continued in slight presses above the head, all that she could offer to her child. Night, in six hours, was passed in such stillness and quiet that perhaps even the crickets and owls took a nap. The dark room, in its territory, neither heard a whisper nor a snore. The hands moved slowly and the eyes stared intently.

The night passed and the eyes in complete redness, still stared. Mrs. Jones was on the side, but humanly asleep. Norah, as the blurred vision cracked at the startling glare of the sun, moved her hand conspicuously. Though, what she uttered was in the most diminutive achieved. But at those syllables, Sheila could not stop but smiled. With a wavering finger, Norah Jones pointed at the barely visible tree outside, uttering, “Apple.”