“There’s an upstairs and a downstairs. Just do what you always do.”

His voice is deep; the words come out with difficulty, as if he hasn’t seen another human being in days.

The living room is bright. There are no photos of family members, no artwork over the sofa, no side tables with newspapers, no pens or stacks of books anywhere. There’s a single shelf, with a tea light and a stopped clock on it. In here it’s always two-thirty. The floor is strewn with pips, muesli, nuts and solidified pasta. The dining table is empty, save for a layer of dust. It’s a living room you might find after a house move.