Los Angeles, April 1926

It was uncommon for the bell to ring at such a late hour, and the old woman’s fingers gripped the handle of her teacup with a start. She sat alone, as she did each night, at the open window of her small bungalow. She’d grown accustomed to living in relative seclusion these past twenty years; visitors were a rarity outside of her those she dutifully welcomed in on a monthly basis to fulfill her civic obligations with the Ladies Aid Society and the Fine Arts League. She thought them all a pack of silly old peacocks, but bore them graciously.

This night, a Thursday, her nerves had been on particularly on edge. It was a tranquil, still night with a quarter moon--the like of which she’d not seen since that night 20 years ago when her hands still held a hint of youth, holding her husband’s hand for the last time as they walked slowly back from the Opera house. San Francisco a gleaming, glittering jewel on the bay. It would lay in flames by morning, destroyed instantaneously by quake, and with it her husband.

The bell rang again.