In climbing the stairs trying to distract his attention from the questionable state of cleanliness and maintenance of common areas. Small pieces of plaster, in the throes of apparent depression, fell off the bricks to let a liberating leap into the void.
Passing the entrance doors of the various affairs, tried to guess what kind they were looking for suggestions from their occupants form, imagination and state of degradation of the doormats.
The doors were all similar. Buildings and conspiratorial watching him with the peephole as he walked past you.
Only one tried to get his attention and made him the only way by which an old door may attract the attention of a human being: creaking.
was the front door of the third floor, one below her. The crunch had the desired effect and his eyes rested on it.
almost identical to the other, differed mainly in that the knob was impaired and that the wrought iron door mat, asleep at his feet, still sported a coat very shiny and thick.
While his eyes linger on the white label, instead, should have the name and tenant's last name, his thoughts had already ruled that those who lived there was probably female, with a tedious job but with an identity to be stable and not advertise. This was enough to postpone any further rumination to a more appropriate time.
passed over and came to the front door of his house that, for some time, waiting for him. He knew it would come soon, he had heard from someone.
were a front to another. The silence, strong enough to muffle his ears, he was interrupted by three words and a question "Why are you open?".
Obviously, no one answered.
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