A chill autumn breeze stalks the forest, disgorging a spill of red, brown, and golden leaves that fall, resting like a shroud on the forest floor, forming an irregular mound at the base of the tree.
Out on the lake, a single loon cries out, a mournful, lonely call that goes unanswered.
Every morning like clockwork the jogger stops at this tree, stops to admire the beauty of the lake and the forest, stops to quietly reflect in a moment of peace in an otherwise busy life. Every morning like clockwork, but not this morning.
Under the decaying leaves, a phone rings out, an urgent, desperate call that goes unanswered.
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