The chair sat lonely in its room. It was the same. The desk was cluttered, books spilled onto the floor. The wall had a few pictures and shelves, but nothing very interesting. The only thing that changed was the amount of dust on the desk and the amount of mold in the coffee cup.

          Nothing’s changed. Not for ten years now. At least, that’s how long it seemed; it could be fifteen, maybe fifty. But for a chair frozen in time, it didn’t matter anyway. That door had remained locked since Anastasia Cleary had taken one longing look at her husband’s office, locked the door, and took the nearest train to who-knows-where. Maybe if Mr. Cleary hadn’t been murdered, the room would have changed. Maybe the coffee would be more than halfway drank, maybe the last person to sit in the chair would have been alive instead of poisoned by his daily coffee. Maybe the books wouldn’t have spilled on the floor if Mrs. Clearly had taken the time to murder him somewhere else–somewhere quieter. But instead, there she was at 1:30 AM, dragging her dead husband out of his office. The room remains untouched, unlooked at. The only ones who know the truth about Mr. Cleary are the room, the chair, and the poisoned moldy coffee next to spilled books.