Once you find yourself in the room, a sense of nostalgia rushes over you and brings a smile to your face.  You run your fingers over the chair behind the desk right in front of the window and look out to see none other than the place you and your mother stayed.  Blinking, you stand by the glass and cross your arms, looking at how it was so close and yet so untouchable at the same time.

The smell of the room was the smell of your father.  Aftershave and citrus, and that strange smell of old books that always clung to what he wore.  Which is probably caused by all these shelves surrounding his desk.

“They’re not dusty,” You pull out the first book that catches your eye.  It says ‘How to Talk to a Child’.  You chuckle.  He did look like he wasn’t doing such a good job with you.  “Does anybody come to clean this room regularly?”

You’re to occupied with exploring the room to notice that nobody has answered your question.  That nobody was in the room except for one person.

You sit on your father’s chair and tug at his drawers, pulling out a portrait of you and your mother when you were first born, both your silver hairs significantly gleaming under the hospital light in the black and white picture.  Taking out the picture, you flip it over and see your father’s neat handwriting at the back.

“Amara, our love,”

“Aw, man,” You sniff.  “Why did you have to die, dad?” The tears come down your cheeks and onto the polished surface of the table.

“He didn’t, really,”

You turn the chair and squint at the window to see someone sitting on the pane.  “Who’re you?”

“Me? Who am I?” He asks, pointing at himself.

“Yes, you,” You groan, covering your eyes with your arm.  “Can you please come down from there? My eyes are really starting to hurt,”

“Oh, right, sorry,” He clears his throat and rounds the table so that he’s across the desk from you. “So that’s why you couldn’t recognize me,” He mutters to himself.

You sit there and stare at this person standing in front of you.  His greying hair, his broad chest, his lopsided smile and that slight tilt to his thick eyebrows.  “Hi, Amara,”

“D-dad?”