Evelyn Harper, an energetic woman in her early forties with chestnut curls, padded barefoot across the cool tile. She hummed softly, balancing a jar of strawberry jam in one hand and her phone in the other. The scent of toast filled the air as she reached for the bread knife, intent on making a perfect breakfast.
Evelyn reached down to pick up a fallen envelope, her foot grazing the bottle. Unbeknownst to her, the cap had loosened, and a viscous puddle spread near her toes. She set her jam down, only to feel her bare feet suddenly, unmistakably, stuck fast to the floor.
Evelyn tugged her foot with mounting irritation. "Oh, come on! Not today," she muttered, twisting to grab a nearby wooden spoon for leverage. As she leaned, her elbow knocked a stack of plates, which teetered dangerously at the counter's edge.
One plate bounces, striking the handle of the yellow kettle. Boiling water sloshes from its spout, splattering dangerously close to Evelyn's glued feet. She gasps, yanking harder, but the glue holds fast, her panic mounting as the water inches closer.
In a desperate bid, Evelyn reaches for the phone, but it skids out of reach, landing amid the puddle. Sparks ignite the spilled jam, flames licking up in a sudden whoosh. Evelyn's last cry is lost beneath the roar of the fire, the kitchen now a tableau of tragic, improbable chaos.
Neighbors gather outside, whispering in shock and disbelief at the strange accident. The cat clock, miraculously unscathed, ticks on—its tail a somber metronome in the silence that follows.
