On the fireplace, a family portrait stood. He was about nine. Grinning. A parent at each shoulder, their hands touching down on him. It was one of his favourite pictures because even though his parents were looking right ahead, both were watching him out of the corner of their eye, their heads angled towards him. It was like the whole world was before them, but he was still the center of their universe. They passed it too quickly.

The kitchen was a narrow strip that was more chaos than it was organisation. A antique piano was squished in to the right of the tiny table, trapping one of the chairs...