The lights enter through the square glasses of the window and lay on the brown-cherry wooden floor. From time to time they shiver, stroke by the branches of the old nut tree from the yard. A small yard run to weed in forty two years of long quiet abeyance. And seasons roll one after another; always knock on the door and always none answer. Reflections of passing clouds come and leave; drops of late cold autumn slip down the window and wash away in heat of summer.
Warm lights of spring lay on the ground and, full of childish hope, enter once again in the room. But to the joy of whom? The room is quiet as a mouse. The bed is made, but empty; the nightstand holds two books, but full of dust: one has leather backs, the other stands almost naked by thick paper cover; the title says “ESCAPE”.
A four on four room with a simple wooden, two doors closet, a small desk in the corner, to the right of the window. The door is closed.
Everything stands still. Still like frozen world in time. If it had not been for the playful lights of the sun, the room would be cold as ancient witches in dead forests. But there is something more in the light than dust particles flying around. There is warm in cold and, therefore, there is life in death. And through the old window’s frame, birds’ peeping breaks the deep silence. It merely looks alive if you listen; but if you took a closer look, you will find…nothing. The silent! Cold nights will speak to it. Yes, from spring to autumn, noises from outside will break through glass and bump into the walls. They will echo in the sunny winter’s days. But, at night, they will all die and reveal the nothingness; because there is nothing here.
Now, the room is empty, but warm, still, but open to sounds; sounds of alarmed voices. Just take a look outside the window: some children are shouting at a boy who tries to jump over the wooden tall fence, back in the alley. Oh! That ball, it must be so important.