Even the ant family had gone away. The pink stones under his old trainers were dark green with neglect, corrupted by his mother’s long, boring illlness and the rows of pots seemed sickly too, glaring at him as an intruder. Everything stared at him, myopic and without compassion. For he was the last witness to this place’s disappearance beneath dead things and they had to hate him for that; they had no choice.
Winter had come. His heart knew it.