Agatha was lying down in a beautiful field of dark buckwheat. The black fringe on her dress blending with the edible crop. The smell of burnt eggs flooding anybody’s nose in a mile radius. There was a building behind the field that housed the eggs. The house was a beautiful hue of cotton candy pink. The inside had a kitchen, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a single flickering light bulb. Agatha was washed away in her own bright red blood. The one story house was hard to hide in. There was a man in the house, but she lived alone.