There was a woman in a chair, head down, hands in her lap. A man was sprawled across the kitchen floor, the broken bottle beside him. Upstairs, in beds, were three children and an older woman; they had clearly been tucked in, lovingly arranged just so.
The house must have stayed sealed and dry for a long time. Years, maybe. The bodies were untouched, dry, mummified. Even in this climate, it was remarkable.
We didn’t bother searching for food or weapons. With guns, the inhabitants might have tried escape, and they surely would have eaten everything before turning to poison.