It was a small little room where he lived. It was underground in an abandoned ruin of civilization, always cold and oddly drafty. But I always thought of it as a sanctuary because at night when the candles were lit to give us light, I never felt cold.
There was still a little pot on the stove, books on his bed and sheets of music plastered on the walls by the piano. I had never heard him sing but my friends used to tell me about it. He only sang when someone died. I walked through the aisles of the three shelves of books that he had stolen from a forgotten library sometime in his past but never talked about it. My hand traced the spines of the Shakespearian works lingering on Hamlet thinking about Ophelia. There was still Ophelia's dress thrown over on the chests with all his clothes.
They smelled worn and yet oddly of flowers. There hadn't been flowers in this land for decades but the rich people in the city had them. I had smelled a rose once when I was little living in the city. I remember the endless gardens in the center before I was cast out here in the Outlands where the rest of the world lived.
A stray dog had followed me in looking at me curiously. Did it know me? Did it want to help me? But I didn't need help. I was just going home. I didn't know how I had gotten back here. I couldn't remember walking back. Perhaps he would be back soon. There was still a tingling on my lips. Just another trace of him like everything else in this room.
I pressed my hand to my bloodstained heart rubbing the blood between my fingers. That's odd, I thought. I didn't remember getting shot. I looked around the small vacant room. It didn't look at all warmed by my presence.
That's when I heard the singing.