You turn the key in the lock and step in­side.

The win­dow opens with a touch, and the wispy cur­tains, so out of place in such a room, flut­ter gen­tly in the breeze.

You al­ways liked such thin, light cur­tains. Cin­e­matic, yet some­how…

They aren’t cur­tains, re­ally. You are sure they have a name, but if you’ve heard it, you’ve for­got­ten it.

You can hear the room whis­per to you. You can feel the spot un­der the floor­board call­ing out to you.

But its call has al­ready been an­swered; it has al­ready been emp­tied: once by you, and what lit­tle was left, by The Fa­ther.

You step to the closet, and open the door.

You grab his fa­vorite, bright blue wa­ter bot­tle, the vi­o­lin he rarely used, and his pur­ple hair­brush.

You saw them last time you were here, and you wanted them.

That’s why you are tak­ing them.

No other rea­son. Not like you care.

That rum­bling in your chest is just hunger, af­ter all, noth­ing more.