"...Oh." I stop and look at the building. Everyone's gone. "There was a woman, downstairs," I remember. "She used to take in laundry. She offered me food once." I wonder where she is. I hope she's alright.

"Come on," I say. The front door is locked, but it's easy to lift it off its rusting hinges. Inside it's dark and smells of emptiness and a bit of rot. "Upstairs," I say. The stairs are still sound. We go up, and up again. I can feel myself up there in the dark. Is this home, then?

The door isn't locked, but it hasn't been opened. I can feel it. I put my hand on it and push. For me, it opens. The inside smells rank. It's dim inside, and I go across and pull down the cloth I'd tacked across the little window.

Genny's picture's still here. There's a bloom of pale mould on one corner. I wonder what he'll think of it, as he is now.