In the old farmhouse, the afternoon sun filters through the broken kitchen window. A towel still hangs on the glass towel rod, the sink full of debris.

Since the last time I was here, the stairs have deteriorated and are tricky to climb. Upstairs, the contents of the drawers have begun to rot. An old lace tablecloth is salvagable. I find a driver's license - 1947. And a round powderbox.