...

The mood hit me with what I imagined as a cloying thump. You could almost smell the lethargy in the still air, the sense of hopelessness and depression laying thick on the tongue, the mood heavier than that at a funeral. At least there one can get closure. But this desperation, this monotony seemed endless. The only change in the dead house came when, once a week, a bustling cleaner flitted between the rooms to stir the cold air and open the windows. They were closed the minute she left.

He moved about the house in practised steps that echoed in the hushed silence of the dead rooms. These were punctuated every so often by a deep and mournful sigh. It was the same each and every night; the shuffling walk, the laboured breathing, the reading of the newspaper on the stool in the kitchen. Like nothing will ever change, or grow, or develop. Like it would be like that forever- an odd man in an odd house, with his odd ways.

It took me precisely 3 minutes and 48 seconds of being in that house to remember why I couldn't stand to be there.