Remember

The wind crawled through the open window and tugged on the black curtain. Shards of paper and leaves scattered in equal portions across the carpet murmured as the air drifted around them. Some had notes scrawled on one side, and if someone decided to read them they would find the words on many were identical. Though the room was far from empty, it was clear that no human had set foot in it for weeks.

The corner was home to an unmade bed, and from its fabric the breeze lifted a familiar aroma of sweat and urine. There were spare sheets, but they were stored high, atop a wardrobe so large you wondered if it had been built inside the very room if inhabited, for it could not have passed through any door. The bed itself was equally impressive. Easily four bodies wide and nearly two long, it was once enough to make any guest feel like honoured royalty. Now though, mold dappled its surface like shadows seeping from another world.

On the bedside table. "Eat well for longer life" and "10 secrets to feel 10 years younger" straddled each other, pages of each marking the most important of the other. On these pages were more notes, faded highlightings and ferocious scribbles which blackened whole paragraphs in frustration.

The wind passed by the door. It was locked, from the outside of course. Next to it lay a walking cane and a pair of running shoes, colours muted and scent surprisingly fresh. It was unlike the owner to leave without the cane, as much as he used to deny that he needed it. But he hadn't gone back for it. He hadn't gone back for anything.

Near the door to the en-suite, the carpet became damp, then saturated and the wind hovered carefully above it. Water swirled gently around the tiled floor, encouraged in endless motion by the plip plip of droplets embracing their brethren. In the ocean were dozens of medicine boxes, the ink which once identified each sculpted into abstract art. They had been quite insistent on gifting him an array of tablets, though he had been quite insistent he couldn't possibly accept them. 

The mirror was clean, and the wind took care not to pass too close and fog up the glass. It looked at its own, invisible reflection, then at the weekly timetable stuck next to it. Every day was identical. 

Wake up, shower, breakfast, pills, exercise, newspaper, farm shop, lunch, pills, walk, TV, dinner, TV, read, pills, bed.

It was healthy to have a routine, he'd read. In a sense, it saved him keeping a diary, since everything was mapped more efficiently there. He did have a diary. The wind knew where it was but didn't bother to find it. It was a decade old, since he'd never had to buy a new one, and the first page read the same as every other would have. 

Nothing much to report.

Diaries were supposed to be good for your health too.

The wind sighed and crept under the door, venturing reluctantly through the hall. It hurried past the phone and its sliced cable. As if a blade could cut away guilt. 

At the end of the hall was the main bedroom. It knew it shouldn't come here. It couldn’t bear to accidentally disturb anything. Or at least, that was the usual excuse to stay away.

The room was pristine. When needed, at times like now, the wind allowed itself to go in and keep it that way. It always started with the photos, delicately sweeping the dust from their faded frames and taking care not to gaze too long at the memories contained inside them. She was inside them. A prison of glass and ink to keep her from the world for eternity. She looked joyous in every picture, radiant even in black and white. She’d never wavered, even as her final night had drawn closer. The wind recalled how she’d reassured him, far more than he had ever reassured her. How she’d promised everything would go on just fine without her. Except for his magical morning coffee. That, she had said, he would have to make himself from now on. That coffee used to appear by the bed every morning, before he woke up. The dark wedding ring stained into the bedside table proved as much.

The bed itself was perfectly made. Beneath the sheets, the wind knew her shadow was there, stencilled into the mattress next to his. It hadn’t been touched since the night he had moved to the guest room a decade ago, unable to face this one alone. The night which, far away, had been her last. The night he’d vowed never to put anyone through the pain of his. Not even himself.

Outside, the sound of a car door and a wavering voice followed the wind through the window.

“Yes. Yes, his car’s still here. No, I haven’t heard from him for months. Not unusual, no. Well, not any more… Okay, we’ll stay here. Of course. Thank you.”

A phone hung up and the voice sucked in air as if being taught how to breathe for the first time. Another joined it in consolation.

“You’ve done all you can. They’ll do what’s best now,”

“I just don’t understand why he never spoke to us. It must have been so hard after mum…”

The first voice cracked, the words sliding through bubbling saliva.

“I should have been more forceful, I shouldn’t have let him stay here on his own all this time,”

“You did all you could. It was up to him really though, he only ever did what he felt comfortable with,”

“It’s just -”

A shaking silence drifted through the window. The wind heard it and peered outside. His daughters embraced in tears, sobbing carefully into each other's shoulders. They were mournful, he decided, but still whole. Unbroken.

He turned away and fell back into the sky. It was too late for him. He had forgotten how to live ten years ago. But he had done all he could to make sure they remembered.