𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝟒

It was supposed to be just another morning. As I stepped out of the elevator, the familiar scent of the lobby greeted me-a mix of freshly polished floors and the faint aroma of the flowers arranged by the entrance.

The security guard and receptionist offered their usual greetings, and I responded with a cheerful "Morning," my voice bright and upbeat. But something was off. The air outside was thick, almost suffocating, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

I walked to my white Range Rover, its glossy surface reflecting the early morning sun. I loved the feeling of stepping into a spotless car, everything in its place, the leather seats cool and welcoming. But as I pulled out of the parking garage, that uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach only grew stronger.

The drive to my bakery, normally a soothing ritual of smooth turns and familiar sights, felt different today. There was a tension in the air, an unspoken anxiety that seemed to hang over the neighborhood like a storm cloud.

As I approached the block where my shop was located, I noticed the flashing lights first-red and blue, cutting through the early morning haze like a warning. Then, the distant wail of sirens, growing louder with each passing second.

I slowed down, my heart beginning to race as I saw the cluster of police cars and the group of people gathered near the entrance to my bakery. It was a small crowd, their faces tight with a mix of curiosity and dread, eyes locked on the scene unfolding in front of them. My breath caught in my throat as I noticed the yellow tape stretching across the sidewalk, cordoning off a section of the street. A crime scene.

What happened here?

I pulled over a few meters away, my hands gripping the steering wheel as I tried to steady my nerves. A part of me wanted to turn around, to drive away and pretend I hadn't seen any of this. But my bakery was right there, my place of solace and creativity, and I needed to know what was going on. I took a deep breath, grabbed my purse, and stepped out of the car.

The air was heavy with tension, the usual city sounds muted beneath the hum of low voices and the occasional crackle of police radios. I walked slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last, my eyes scanning the scene in front of me. Officers stood in small groups, talking quietly among themselves, their expressions serious. A few feet away, detectives were huddled together, notepads in hand, their faces drawn and focused.

And then I saw it-the body.

My heart skipped a beat, my breath catching in my throat as I realized what I was looking at. A young man, no older than his twenties, lay motionless on the pavement, his face pale and lifeless.

His clothes were rumpled, stained with dark patches that I knew, even from this distance, were blood. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the sky, as if frozen in the moment of death.

There was something unsettling about the way his body was sprawled, one arm bent at an awkward angle, fingers curled as if reaching for something that would never come.