Old man Gaffney was sixty-three years old this year, having worked the profession of sweeping the Crown Square for more than twenty-eight years.
He carried his broom leaving the house when the sky was still pitch black every morning, because according to custom the square must be spotlessly clean before the first bell tolled. He just dragged his feet arriving at the head of the square today then halted.
The trash in the square today looked truly bizarre. They did not lie scattered like usual but were arranged into perfectly straight lines, looking from afar like some kind of pattern.
Gaffney emboldened himself, raising the hurricane lamp in his hand looking carefully. He panicked after finishing looking. On the ground was not any trash at all, but a pile of hair.
