The heavy fog clung to the cobblestones, muffling the sounds of the sleeping, unsuspecting village. Inspector Blackwood adjusted his coat collar against the damp chill. A lone candle flickered in the cottage window, a single point of light. He pushed open the unlocked door, stepping into a scene of profound, unsettling silence. The smell of iron and lavender hung thickly in the still, frigid morning air. A woman lay on the Persian rug, her eyes wide open and staring. Her expensive dress was pristine, except for the dark, growing stain. A silver letter opener protruded from her chest, its handle gleaming under the candlelight. Blackwood noted the untouched tea service, set for two, on the mahogany table. A half-written letter lay beside her, the ink now blotted and smeared. He knelt beside the body, knowing the killer was not yet far away.