The house, bereft of its owner, was a dead house, the shell of a body, its heartbeat stopped. Desolate, strangely silent, it seemed to wait. The quiet was a physical thing, inescapable, pressing like a weight. No footstep, no voice, no rattling saucepans from the kitchen; no Vivaldi, no Brahms burbling in comforting fashion from the tape player on the kitchen dresser. Doors closed, stayed closed.
