He could have been anyone. 6 foot, pockmark cheeks, thick glasses, greying hair emerging from underneath a homburg. Skin was coarse, lips faintly cracked. Tie perfectly knotted. He would occasionally straighten it even though it was never loose. Right eye is droopy, but easy to miss. This created a minute discolouring, which contrasted with the darkness of his left eye.

He lives in this small house in a cordial estate. Nobody would come to visit him. The serenity, being unperturbed by the troubles of the world might be appealing to him. He likes taking care of his front garden; the smell of freshly cut grass would constantly permeate the air. He wouldn’t trim it if anyone else was around though. Never says more than he has to. Simple requests – in, out, thank you, goodbye. He would never gaze at anyone he’d pass on the street, nor would they wish him a good morning.

Inside his house, there would’ve been a different aura. He’d have photographs of a young girl, hung with pristine delicacy. Every picture different, yet similar. The grain on them would be slightly besmirched, but free of dust and dirt.  The bad memories would be preserved, not by choice. It would follow him everywhere. He couldn’t forget the past any more than he could escape the future it caused. Towns change, everything stays the same. Rather than hiding from it anymore, he indulges it. He lies in bed, dreaming of the girl in the photographs. The ultimate taboo.