A cool breeze, howling like a seasoned hooligan, burst into the room. It creaked the open window sashes, spun the blades of the turned‑off fan, leafed through the pages of a carelessly tossed book, and, grabbing hold of the curtains, jumped from the windowsill into the bouquet of dried flowers. The dry leaves rustled, the vase swayed heavily and collapsed downward, freeing the top shelf of the bookshelf.
“Step aside!” “She warned in a low voice, shaking her mass of dry curls.
Someone darted to the side, spilling tea; someone slipped to the side, ducked, jumped back.
The stand made of fired clay caught the heavy weight of the vase. It crunched, ringing as it shattered into large fragments.
The wind picked up the fallen leaves of the dried flowers and, pleased with itself, slipped away through the open window.