The only light in the room came from the lamp in the corner. An old piece of furniture, its bulb produced an almost orange glow. Against the red couch adjacent, its glow became deep and growling. For him, this colour had conquered the pale, white walls that surrounded.

He sat in the centre of the room and stared at the three photographs of each man hung up on the wall in front of him. They had taken his love away and never gave her back. And so he had taken them in exchange. One by one.

It had been days since the last man. He no longer had appetite and would only wake at dark to murmur to himself. He grew impatient as he awaited her return. With each knock at the door, he would swing it open only to see the city towers surrounding his abode and nothing else. Squinting at the dim yellow rectangles floating in the dark he mumbled. No more sweet memories – only this bitter taste. He shut the door and tore the photographs down. He could not think of her. Not anymore. Not like this.