15, Hatherley Crescent

There is someone in my house. I can hear their steps in the other room, light taps on the pine wood floor. They are pacing the room, moving about faster with each passing second. I can hear them open drawers and slam them shut after screaming yet another profanity. They open a drawer and stop tapping their feet on the floor. I hear a voice like sandpaper on rough stone.

"Did you find it, Miss Holloway?"

"Yes, Mr. Fener, I found the deed. See, the house is mine."

The second voice is like a melody, smooth. If it were a fabric, it would be the finest of silks, like the ones Father's boats brought back from the East. I heard more steps and a man walked straight past me. His posture was terrible, Mother would never have liked him. He wore his hair in rough curls that were more tangles and knots than curls. The man makes to leave, his hand almost on the iron handle of the door. He turns his head and his eyes settle in my direction. He walks towards me and I see his face clearly. His skin is sagging and the folds on his forehead seem to multiply with each breath. His eyes look half closed and the wrinkles around them only enhance the dreary air about him. The years have not been kind to him. He walks past me, no right through me.

"Adora, you didn't mention your roommate."

The melody again.

"What roommate?"

"The gentleman outside."

The melody continues to play and, despite its captivating nature, I realize something else. This Mr. Fener will soon be like me. A tragic, inevitable ending.

After an argument about whether or not I am truly here, Mr. Fener gives up and leaves, his hand lingering on the iron door for a bit longer than socially acceptable. I leave to the loft to process the new person in my house. The voice that could put the singers of the Teatro di San Carlo to shame. The loft is a sighing shadow of what it used to be. The years of no use have left it to dust and cobwebs but I will never forget its grandeur of the past. The shelves lining the walls filled with the finest literature. The lamps on each stool illuminating the room. How I loved this loft.

I sit and reflect on what to do. The walls stare back at me equally perplexed. I then realize that I do not have to do anything. This person is obviously unaware of my presence. Why should I wake a sleeping dog? This is why I love this old, forgotten loft. All my best thoughts were made here.

I walk down the weary, worn-down stairs listening to the footsteps. She's moving in and I can hear the drawers open; and clothes rustle; and items fall followed by a series of loud profanities; and then I hear the sheets rustle and silence. She is absolutely quiet now, until I hear it again, the music.

"Hey."

Silence.

"I'm good. Just unpacked."

Silence.

"A housewarming party? I don't think so, this house is quiet old."

Had the human girl gone mad? Who was she speaking to because I certainly have not said a word. To add insult to injury she called my house old. It is old but that does not give her the right to point it out like that. She chose to live here. I decide to get a good look at her. Does she think her splendid voice is a free pass to insult my only surviving legacy?

"Okay, bye for now."

I walk into the room and there she is slouched against the headboard. Her many curls frame her round face and stand in elegance. Her face is so alluring it is ethereal. Her eyes are as dark as an endless abyss; they could trap a man. Her lips are full and rounded, her top lip darker than the bottom. Her stomach protrudes out of her knickers and her arms shake as she wipes the dust off the bedding. She is beautiful, more beautiful than any woman dead or alive.

She gets up and begins to take off her shirt. I immediately turn around.I process what I am feeling and I know I have not felt this in eons, not since my untimely demise. Whoever Adora Holloway is, she is truly enamored by me. I truly am a shameless man.