A Skylark Special - Vol 2, The Man with a Storm in His Eyes The Skylark Bell

The Man with a Storm in His Eyes – Volume 2
NOTE: If you have not listened to Volume 1 of this 4-part miniseries, please pause this episode, and go listen to the first installment, otherwise the story won't make much sense.

Over Thanksgiving I spent a few days house- and cat-sitting for a friend. The moment I met Russell the cat I was completely charmed by the milky cloudiness of his eyes. What fascinated me most was that he appeared to be able to see just fine... to the point where sometimes he appeared to be seeing things that I myself couldn’t see. I found myself inspired and fully credit Russell with breaking through my writer’s block.

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FULL TRANSCRIPT:
Things with Wings Productions presents: The Man with a Storm in His Eyes - A Skylark Special Miniseries written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.  
Before I begin, if you haven’t listened to the first installment of this story, I strongly suggest you hit pause on this episode and go listen to volume 1 or the story won’t make much sense. 
In last week’s episode, we met Marie, who agreed to take on a job house-sitting for twin sisters Florence and Winifred over the holiday weekend and will help care for their elderly tenant, Mr. Holcomb who lives upstairs. When we left Marie, she had just exited Mr. Holcomb’s apartment after Christmas Eve dinner went awry as a thunderous storm rolled in. 
Now, get settled in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… and let’s dive back into the story, shall we?

I must have fallen asleep at some point because the next time I glanced at the fire it had been rendered to a pile of glowing embers, and a small stream of sunlight was coming through a crack in the floral chenille fabric of the drapes. I got up, neatly folded, and piled the blankets, and pulled the drapes open to let the full force of the sun shine into the room. A cloud of dust lifted from the drapes and swirled into the air before slowly settling onto the surrounding surfaces. In the bright light of day, the space didn’t seem nearly so threatening, and I began to feel ridiculous about overreacting to the phone call the night before. The line was crackly, I probably misheard. In all likelihood it was a wrong number, or a prank call. 
“Merry Christmas, Marie,” I said out loud to the empty flat as I padded down the hall to the kitchen. I cooked some eggs and toast, poured myself a glass of orange juice, and put the kettle on for tea. I eyed the tea canisters on the shelf above the cookbooks but decided to save that for the evening. I washed up my dishes, changed clothes, brushed my teeth, then decided to go upstairs to check on Mr. Holcomb. 
I climbed the narrow stairs and was about to knock on the door when it swung open, revealing Mr. Holcomb’s silhouette in the hallway. “I told you my hearing was good,” he uttered before I could ask how he knew I was there. “Merry Christmas,” he added without any merriment in his voice. He looked exhausted.
I opened my mouth to ask what had happened the night before, but he had already started walking down the hallway on velvet feet. I followed him to the kitchen where two cups of steaming coffee and a plate of biscuits sat waiting on the table. “How did you...” I let the question trail, unable to wrap my brain around his impeccable timing.
“My senses are above average, I knew you were coming upstairs before you did,