The eyes needed to adjust to the dullness of the dingy room. The single window in the corner was dusty and blocked most of the sunlight from entering. The hand searched the uneven, cold wall for a light switch and clicked it on. A pale white light washed over the clutter that was the room.
A wooden table that had seen many years was pushed up against the small window. A few crumpled sheets of paper, a leather bound book, worn out with use and a pen lay on its scratched surface. The chair near the table was barely visible underneath the huge pile of clothes that were haphazardly thrown over it. A few bags and boxes lay on the yellow tiles, a thin film of dust covering them. Crushed wrappers, probably belonging to some edibles were strewn in an uneven manner. A tiny stove covered in oil and grime stood on a foldable rickety table next to a plate, spoon and glass. An unopened bottle of bright red sherbet seemed like a new addition there. Under the table was a pot darkened by soot and a pan that was missing a handle.
The feet stepped gingerly on the floor, avoiding the debris and then stopped in front of a sturdy but old wooden cupboard. The doors were slightly ajar. The hands reached out and opened the cupboard. The shelves were mostly bare, except for a few files and some old photographs. The palms turned cold as they clenched the brass knobs of the cupboard doors. Turning away without a second glance, the feet walked to the only wall that had a frame hanging on it. It was lopsided. The fading colours of the painting were barely visible through the dust.
There was an unmade bed in the remaining cramped space of the room. The gray sheets were pushed to a side and the pillows and mattress looked creased. Pain had left, leaving behind an eerie calm.
The feet walked to the door and clicked the light off before leaving.
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