Most of the air in the room has been absorbed into the furniture - chairs stiff with disuse, a piano that would croak at the touch of curious fingers.
"We should all be well," she says, peering at us with eyes that see nothing but cloudy shapes and light.
Old homes by the ocean criss-crossed by power lines, their bricks glowing and their gables peeling away.
In the fountain - coins, litter, and a water-logged postcard; maybe someone making a wish about the next place they'd like to visit.
The smell of cigarette smoke off a leather jacket can be attractive in passing.
A courtyard: sticky fruit on stone hexagons.
Ferns in a blue vase on a balcony, with the river below.