Dust motes danced, caught in the late afternoon light. Old Professor Eldridge lay motionless on the Persian rug. A forgotten teacup clattered beside his outstretched hand. His reading glasses perched crookedly on a small, neat pile. A single red rose petal rested near his pale cheek. A chilling silence filled the cluttered study. No breath escaped his parted lips now. A small cut bled on his temple. His opened book was facedown on the floor. The smell of almonds hung sickly in the air.