The air is still and too thick to breathe.

The man sits hunched over a splintered stool in an emptied kitchen home to a flickering lamp,

His eyes trace the scuffs along the floorboards as he recalls their story.

He does not want to remember.

He does not want to forget.

The clouds of laughter that billowed through the now emptied and barren hallways,

The way she dragged the burgundy couch all around to bathe in the sun’s rays whenever possible,

A past moment of agitation became a present recollection of fondness.

There is nothing left.

His fist tightly grips a silver key.

His palms haunted by the smell of iron.

He is drowning.

He places the coddled silver key upon the freezing stone countertop,

Abandoned next to it is silver key covered in a blanket of dust adorned with a smeared label that reads, “home,”

The cracked window pours a gentle breeze and rustles the withered wallpaper,

The man turns around and feels the warmth of the sun reaching every corner of the scuffed wooden floors.