Janey slowly turns the key in an arthritic lock, opening to a waft of stale cigarettes and cloudy memories.
The ancient fridge whirrs and wheezes at the oxygen masks lying in a heap by the bin, while exhausted pots wait patiently beside a cold oven, long past dinner time. Warmed only by a dim ray of autumn sunshine through the nicotine-stained window, unopened mail weakly beckons from the table in the tired sitting room. A man on a double-glazing flyer watches with a hollow smile as she scans the room for some comfort.
It’s the empty chair that does it.