I read The Boarded Window, by Ambrose Bierce.
“The little log house, with its chimney of sticks, its roof of warping clapboards weighted with traversing poles and its "chinking" of clay, had a single door and, directly opposite, a window.“ This story is not shy of imagery, rather it gives your sensors plenty to droll over.
The story was overall a pleasant read, and dated itself well. For they described a common thread in early civilization, the burial of those who had been in an unconscious state.
“The ribbon with which he had bound the wrists was broken; the hands were tightly clenched. Between the teeth was a fragment of the animal's ear.”
I was rather surprised and benumbed at first, until the realizations bored over me.
It was my first time, and it evoked a sense of doubt in decision making.

In a quaint cabin, encompassed of dainty foundation, sat a man by the name of Murlock. There he lived an estranged life with his wife, a women of little story known. Throughout the story he faces the ill nature of his wife and decides to bury her after her ‘supposed’ death. In my alternate ending I will rewrite the ending of the story, starting from his waking up.
His eyes eased open, the light slitting its way throughout the crevices of his dainty home. In addition to his boring emotions, he was provided the not-so-pleasant surprise of a panther, slipping its sleek silhouette through the frame. Without much reaction he laid pinned, the panther’s eyes causing him to recollect