april · uneven light · stayed an hour
he had been here once, at the end of one season of his life, and had not been back. the doorbell did not surprise him; the floor did. he stood on it for a while, weighing it. then he went up the stairs as if he still owned them.
he did not look for anyone. he looked for a particular window in the long corridor, and then for a particular smell in the library. he found one and not the other. he did not seem disappointed; he had not been counting on both.
field-note i did not recognise him. it became clear that he did not expect me to. before he left he touched the newel post with two fingers, not at all sentimentally — as one touches the rail of a bridge one has just crossed.