She could smell death, she told us.

She sat on the sofa, looking old and wise. She told us she has watched many people die. She could smell it on them. It was a fruity smell and when she got a whiff, she knew it was time to bid farewell. In the warm living room, this story took on a spooky note, although I doubt that was her intention.

Her eyes appeared bigger from behind the thick spectacles. Her palms were peeling in some parts, like old walls in damp homes. When she spoke her voice had a crackling edge to it. Someone asked her to stop. They were tired and didn't need to hear all that, they said.

“I am telling you facts; not some quack tales.” She said, confused by the request for to shut up. One man with a thick beard and gold rimmed glasses said it was, at best, a co-incidence. “My mother died smelling like talcum powder and my father- he reeked of cigarette smoke. There is no rule” He said. She shook her head. “It’s true. I studied medicine for long enough to know that it’s true.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I used to be. Now I write books.”

“Ah, that explains it. All you writers weaving your surreal tales. It’s fiction, Ma’am. It’s all in your head.”

She smiled. “I must leave. It’s getting late.”

She then leaned over to the bearded man and patted his cheek. “You know I am right.” She whispered and we all watched his eyes widen. “You… well, are you? OH..” He said, and his voice fizzled off.

She died the next day. The bearded man ate his words but never ate a fruit again. He just couldn’t bring himself to.