It was underwhelming. Dust clung to everything like it had been painted on. The single small window on the far wall was cracked and smeared with dirt, letting in a trickle of gray light. There were trash bags, at least ten, clustered toward the far corner, some ripped open, contents spilling out like intestines: old newspapers, rolled-up rugs, what looked like a broken fan.
A moth-eaten armchair leaned against a wardrobe whose doors had warped open over time. A rusted bedframe. A cracked mirror. Cobwebs draped like bunting. Michael wrinkled his nose. “This is it?” Elise said nothing.