Memories

A threadbare grey carpet lies on a hardwood floor that is worn and dented from many years of pounding feet. On top of the carpet there is an old brown dog that is doing nothing but sleeping and occasionally shifting position, making shuffling noises when his wiry hair brushes against the rug. All four walls are a grimy cream colour, punctuated only by a loud, yellowing wall clock and a small window that is so full of condensation and so caked with dirt that it barely lets any sunshine in. Below this window (if you can call it that) a decaying oak desk wearily carries multiple stacks of thick leather photo albums that attempt to fill the room with a rich, leathery smell. This is not strong enough to cover the damp scent that permeates the room, however, nor the scent of rotting wood.
The air is heavy in this room, and the moods of those who enter it are almost immediately subdued. No one yells or speaks harshly in this room, because this room is meant for whispers. Not even the dog dares to whine or bark when isolated to the room.

Suddenly the heavy, soundproof metal door is thrown open right as the clock ticks to show 5 p.m. In rushes a lanky man with chestnut coloured hair that makes a beeline to the photo albums. His long, white fingers stretch towards the closest album on the desk, a brown one, when he stops, shudders, and walks slowly out the door. The dog does nothing but lazily open his eyes, as if expecting this. His golden irises drift toward the handle as it slowly turns, and, with a sigh, they close again. With a click the door swings open once more, this time slowly, and in the entrance the same man stands. After quickly muttering a few words, he gently pads across the threshold and crosses the room, making no noise at all. When he reaches the desk he plucks a brown album off one of the stacks and sits down on the bare floor cross-legged, his long legs folding awkwardly. The photo album is cast in shadow as the man hunches over it and caresses the yellowing pages, his large brown eyes darting back and forth between the plentiful black and white photos. A beautiful fair haired woman appears in the photographs often, as does a young boy with angelic features and fair hair. A younger, happier-looking version of this man also appears in the photographs, though not as often.

Other than the quiet rustling of the pages being turned, there is no noise.