First step in an empty apartment

After 17 years of living with my wife and children, I’m taking a step into an empty apartment.

As I push open the door, I’m greeted with a short hallway. The floor is tiled, and cold to the touch. Doors lead to the bedroom, living room, and toilet. There’s a different smell here: the stale air, the built-in wooden cabinets, the hardwood floors, and the absence of life.

I’m tempted to ask “hello?”, but the echoing of my breath betrays what response I’d get. I take a hesitant step inside.

My feelings are an uncertain mix of bewilderment and fear. I’m expecting a massive slap at any point and a thundering voice, “what the hell have you done?!”

There’s no point in removing my shoes today, I won’t be staying long, and there’s nothing to get dirty yet. I turn into the living room. Between plain white walls lie a checkered hardwood floor. My footsteps create a deep echo, resonating in the hollow space. Light pours in from the large patio window — it’s a rarity to have an older building with large windows.

No furniture. No artwork. No children. No memories. Empty.

It’s quiet. An unexpected deathly still, oblivious to the bustle of traffic a short block away. I can’t hear that traffic, nor people talking on the street. There doesn’t even appear to be any construction…