The house was cold and dark as it always was when I came home. Turning the lights on didn’t seem to help. It just changed the museum from day to night. Even though I lived there, it felt empty.

After the door shut behind me there was only a heavy silence. While I was in my house I couldn’t hear anything, not my heart beat, not even breathing. Sometimes I would put my hand in front of my mouth to make sure I was still alive. I would feel it every time but even straining, I couldn’t ever hear it.

The couch was as neat as I had left it in the morning. After five years it still looked showroom new. Some people would take pride in it as proof that they knew how to take good care of their stuff. I just felt like it was one more thing that I never used. Time had slipped away and what did I have to show for it?

There were no books or magazines or other things identifying me as the owner. No candles, or interesting statues I picked up while hiking in Peru. My house was as curiously mocking in life as a manikin.