The soft sound of a clock, its hands ticking away the time at a steady pace, masked only by the soothing sounds of chopin and quiet crackling from the record player in the corner.
The tea is still warm; half-drunk on its saucer, warm hues of orange and red splashed over its surface.
A cool breeze blows the soft white of the curtains inward, silky fabric kissing fresh flowers in a vase nearby.
Scattered papers across the floor; an empty chair.
The recording comes to an end.
Tick tick tick…