Open by proposing a system for this. Push off from this if it helps: waiting rooms.

The leather jacket on the chair. It smells like stale tobacco and something sweet, maybe pipe tobacco? No, cherry. He always had that cheap cherry pipe. The cuff is frayed. I’m putting it in keep. Not because I want it, but because my hands are shaking and I need something solid. That glass. The one with the chip in the rim. Bin. It’s just glass. But why is it in the good china cabinet? He didn’t drink from fine china. He drank from mugs. That’s the confusion. The mismatch. We need a puzzle piece that isn’t there. Fourth pile. This one too. The weight of it is wrong.

Third pile is already overflowing. Look at it. Just... clutter. A plastic spoon bent at a forty-five degree angle. Why? Who bends a spoon? It’s lying next to a receipt from 2014 for a single banana. I’m tossing the spoon. The receipt? Fourth pile. It’s the banana that haunts me. He hated bananas. Said they were mushy. So why buy one? Maybe for the cat? The cat hasn’t eaten in weeks. We checked. The bowl is dry. Dusty. I’m wiping it with my thumb. The dust comes off clean. That shouldn’t feel like a victory. It feels like a lie. Pass the box. The big one. I need to feel the weight of it.

Glass down. Hard. Thwack. Good. It doesn’t break. That’s a relief. The box is heavier than it looks. Dense. Like it’s full of stones. Or books. He loved books. But this isn’t a book box. It’s the kitchen box. Or the attic box. The tape is yellowed, brittle. I pull at the flap. It tears. jagged. Like skin. Inside... just more cardboard. But it smells like ozone. Or burnt hair. I don’t know. I lift it. My shoulders seize. It’s not weight, it’s resistance. Like pushing against a door that’s locked from the other side. I’m not putting it in keep. I’m not putting it in bin. I’m holding it. Just holding it. While you sort the rest. Don’t look at me. Just sort.

My arms are already screaming. I lower it. Slowly. Like it might explode. Or weep. It sits on the floor with a dull thud. The cardboard crumples slightly at the corner. A small tear. I can see in. A stack of letters. Brown envelopes. Yellowed edges. Keep. No. Bin. No. Fourth pile. I stare at the tear. The paper inside is thick. Cream-colored. Expensive. He never bought nice stationery. He used the free paper from the grocery store. Why are these here? Who wrote to him? I touch the edge of the top letter. It’s cold. Not room temperature cold. Cold like stone. Like a tomb. I pull back my hand. Don’t touch it. Don’t open it. Let’s just... move on. What’s next? The shoebox under the bed? It’s rattling. Why is it rattling?

Rattling. Right. Just physics. Gravity doing its job on loose objects. I drag it over. It’s light, but the noise is loud in the quiet. Like dry bones shaking in a bag. I set it on the table. My hands are still trembling. I don’t open it. You open it. I’ll watch. If it’s buttons, I’ll keep the box. The cardboard is stiff. Good quality. If it’s coins... coins are heavy. Why would they rattle if they were heavy? Maybe they’re hollow? Fake coins? That’s stupid. He wasn’t a thief. He was just... careless. Or careful in the wrong ways. Open it, Ivo. Don’t make me watch you hesitate. Just dump them out. Let’s hear the sound again. That same dry, rattling hiss. It’s the only honest thing in this room.

Just brass. Tarnished. Some green oxidation in the crevices. He probably wore that coat for ten years. The buttons held on. Against all odds. Keep. I toss them in. They clatter. A satisfying, metallic sound. Real. Not like the letters. Not like the ozone smell. At least buttons don’t lie. They just… fall out. Or stay in. Simple physics. I look at my hands. Still shaking. But less. The adrenaline is fading, leaving a hollow ache in my chest. I need to sit. The chair is covered in coats. I have to move the leather one. It’s warm. He’s been sitting here recently. Or I’m imagining it. The smell of cherry pipe is fainter now. Underneath it, something stale. Old sweat. Or just dust. I sit. The leather creaks. It sounds like a breath. I close my eyes. Don’t talk. Just let the buttons sit there. Heavy. Precious. Useless. Like us.

Cold. Good. Cold is stable. I watch you. You peel the tape. It screams. That sound is worse than the rattle. The envelopes fan out. Crisp. Expensive. He never bought this paper. Why? Maybe he stole it. Maybe he found it. You pick one up. The name on the front is smudged. Ink bleeding into the fiber. I can’t read it. My eyes are tired. All this staring. The light in here is wrong. Too yellow. Like old film. You start opening the first one. The sound of paper tearing is so violent. I look away. At the window. The street outside is grey. Indifferent. A car drives by. Horn blares. Normal life. Moving on. We’re stuck in this amber. Trapped. You’re reading the letter. Your face goes pale. Oh. Oh no. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me what it says. Just keep reading. I need to know if the pain is real or if I’m just projecting my own guilt onto dead paper.