Sunlight beamed gracefully through the glass door, highlighting confused dust motes as it came to land on the aged wooden table in the centre of the room. It was mostly jars and dust, jars that contained any number of preservatives that pushed the room into smelling like acrid spice, and left a tinge of sweetness on the tongue when it touched the air.
Many of these jars were chipped or cracked, survivors from a bygone time. Much of the room, and the house, was like that. To the left was a yellowed fridge with photos pinned to it with kitschy magnets shaped like roosters or with the name of the local farmer’s market on them. It sat atop a vain grey grid of tiled floor, and a counter ran to meet the back corner before proceeding along the wall to the edge of the kitchen. Dishes piled high in the sink, forgotten, and to the right of this mountain sat an old looking radio that would be easier to imagine working because a little man stood talking inside it than because of any kind of science.
The paint on the cupboards seemed faded and sun bleached, and served only to complete the remorseful air that the place carried. This made the glass sliding door which helped to illuminate the table, which looked like someone had misplaced a chunk of tree, all the more peculiar. It was held in a pristine white frame, and the glass seemed relatively clean, the whole thing looking crisp and modern, but inevitably out of place. It looked like a last-ditch attempt by a place to save itself before resigning to old ways.