There sat a green sofa at the other end of the room. Around it, portraits of the builders of the house. The gilded frames must once have shone, but five decades of neglect had left them, and the rest of the house, in a sorry state.
Anthony Tyler roamed through the kitchen, setting his coffee on the counter. He walked to the next room, huffing as his bathrobe caught on the doorknob. He frowned.
Plastic sheets covered each piece of furniture. The wallpaper was peeling, the ceiling marred by patches of dry-rot. It smelled damp.
Damn his great uncle for dying. And damn him for leaving Anthony the job of going through his junk.
After turning back for his coffee, Anthony sat down, the thick plastic squeaking (mockingly) at him.
That green sofa.
What was he to do with a green sofa?
He'd haul it to his apartment.
