Night

He imagines summer sun when there is cold drizzle from grey sky. Window is slightly cold, temperature conveying from outside. Nothing comforts him now, good food didn’t work, just finished a nice meal.

There is no time.

Something runs up and down on his spine, an empty call in his stomach, not yet an ache. Sitting back again in the chair, no focus in front of thousands of un-replied emails, like everyone else, message waiting for decoding through lines, attacking peace in life.

Preparing.

Not yet a late night, TV is off, silence is on. Bathing in smooth yellow light, feeling the warmth, or anything familiar, trying. Things now look like a novel in a foreign language, no photos, no translation, no notes, no introduction, just the page number to indicate next step.

He checks page 11, his forever lucky number.

She rings the door bell.