Cindy’s face went hot and then cold. She felt a wave of nausea and she closed her eyes, hoping when she opened them everything would be back to normal. She counted to twenty forwards and then, just for measure, backwards.
She opened her eyes but it was still there. Her mother’s favourite white, linen tablecloth. The one she was given as a wedding gift from her own, now late, mother. The one with hand made lace across the edging.
And a single red sock.