For 70 years an apartment in the center of Paris stood untouched and unused.
Nobody came or went there. Just the years passing by. The dust fell, silently. No voices marred the silence, no hands separated the curtains to cast a glance outside.
Then the lady renting the apartment died, and it was opened.
Everything stood the way it was left 70 years ago .. and for the first time in many decades somebody stepped in and broke the silence.
When I read about the apartment in the newspaper yesterday, it triggered my fantasy madly. That stately apartment, left one day. Maybe a book lying on a coffee table. Perhaps a drinking glass left in the sink in the kitchen. A pair of slippers, abandoned in a corner. A hairbrush on a bedside table.
And quiet. Quiet. Quiet. The dust settling, the years passing. Soft sounds of the world passing by. Outside.
If I were a writer, I'd write a book, inspired in that abandoned apartment, quietly dusting over while life bustles around it.
It would make a fantastic, gloomy, odd story, I think.