His eyes stared vacantly straight up at the ceiling, where a single cobweb which Jean had not noticed swayed in the air-current Lite set in motion with the opening of the door.

On the floor, where it had dropped from his hand perhaps when he fell, a small square piece of gingerbread lay, crumbled around the edges.
Tragic halo around his head, a pool of blood was turning brown and clotted.

Lite shivered a little while he stared down at him.
In a minute he lifted his eyes from the figure and looked around the small room.

The stove shone black in the sunlight which the open door let in.

On the table, covered with white oilcloth, the loaf of gingerbread lay uncovered, and beside it lay a knife used to cut off the piece which the man on the floor had not eaten before he died.
Nothing else was disturbed.