The Day’s End
The key grinds in the lock, meeting that familiar point of resistance before the bolt slides home with a heavy, metallic click. It is the final sound of the working day. I snuff the candle, letting the wick smoulder and scent the gloom with acrid smoke, and slide the ledger into its place until the spine is perfectly flush with the shelf. Before leaving, I straighten the stack of quill-wiped rags, ensuring the corners do not overlap the edge of the desk. The sequence is fixed; it does not vary, and in its repetition, there is no room for surprise.
The Rooms
The fire in the grate is a small, low-burning thing, sufficient to push the chill back from the stone but no further. It requires no tending. My chair stands exactly where the floorboards are most level, its high back offering a hard, upright support that does not yield or require adjustment. There is no second chair to suggest a vacancy. The walls do not move, and the floorboards speak only when the weight of my step commands them.
The Invitation
My nephew’s breath hung like white smoke in the cold air of the counting-house this afternoon. He spoke of a room where chairs are dragged across the floor to make space, and where heavy platters of meat move from hand to hand. He described the overlapping of voices—a story started by one, interrupted by the laughter of three others. Outside, the carollers gather at the corner in a tight circle, their shoulders pressing together as they lean toward one another to catch the pitch of the song.
The Path
I did not follow the sound of the singing. To move toward it would involve a change in the way the evening is set. I took the path where the cobbles are worn flat, and the shadows remain undisturbed by the light of open shop doors. Inside the hall, the routine holds: twelve paces to the mantel, twelve paces back. The heel of my boot finds the specific indentation in the oak, a dull thud marking each turn. I repeat this circuit three times before the coat is removed and the evening settles into its usual shape.
Another Table
To sit at a table with others is to meet the heat of their breath and the constant, expectant turn of their eyes. A question is asked, and the air waits for a voice to fill it. There is the brush of a wool sleeve against one’s own, the scraping of cutlery on porcelain, and the weight of being addressed directly. In such places, the skin is constantly pressed by the proximity of movement and noise. In this room, no such effort is required.
The Silence
The gruel is on the hob, and I stir it with a wooden spoon, the rhythm of the contact against the ceramic bowl filling the kitchen. The steam rises in a thin, straight line. From the street below, a sudden burst of laughter drifts upward, muffled by the thickness of the glass, and then it vanishes. The silence that follows feels larger and more solid than it did a moment before. The clock continues its steady, mechanical beat. The shadows on the wall do not shift.
The Door
The streets are still passable, and the light from the tavern across the way casts a pale, flickering yellow square upon the frost of my window. I stand and walk toward the hall. The door is there, its hinges oiled and functional. My hand lifts, and the palm settles against the iron of the latch. It is cold and heavy. My fingers curl around the handle for a long moment, feeling the slight, mechanical give of the thumb-piece, but the weight of the hand does not press down. The latch remains horizontal. I return to the chair. The fire sinks into the ash. The room is as it was.