Bliss.
She sits on the sofa, making herself feel comfortable while reading "The Stolen Child". The afternoon is quiet and extremely peaceful. Nothing interrupts this peace except the constant mumur of the cars on the highway next to her house. But it didn't irritate her. She has been listening to them for the past 15 years. And she was living on the 13th floor.
She read on and on. And then like a prick to the skin a loud sound rang into her eyes. Jarring it may be, but she continued, thinking it was probably some Lion Dance troupe blazing past the highway. She paused, and waited for it to be gone. But it didn't. Her maid called her from the kitchen. It was a funeral march. Yet another soul has departed from Earth. Who knows what happens after death. Death afterall, is just a moment. What is difficult about death is how the people around the deceased cope. She closed her eyes for a moment, and prays for the departed souls.
She continues reading, silence punctured by the occasional sounds her maid makes while doing the dishes, and the soft sounds the windchime her mother got from Indonesia. It was made of wood. It calmed her down and was comforting in every sense.
The wind blew in from the windows. She loved the house because it was constantly brimming with wind. It wrapped its arms around her, slightly ruffling the pages and swaying the chimes which produced a lovely sound. It was light and pure, and she savoured every moment the wind blows, and blows her thoughts to the back of her mind. She took in a deep breath and felt at peace. Tranquility it seems, is something so precious.
The clock read 2 'o clock. She stopped reading those words and looked out of the window. She thought about life. Her life and life in general. And then she stopped thinking.
For that isn't what life is about.