Realization struck the possible tenant with crystal clear clarity. 

The sprained ankle. The wooden cane. He turned around to confront the sickly old man with silver shadow hair. "You aren't-"

An empty hallway welcomed him. The front door stood wide open, the light from outside giving the dusty hardwood floor an unearthly illumination. The tenant shot up out of his seat.

Where the old man had sat mere moments ago, his cane now lay over a cream-colored sheet of paper.

One single white feather descended onto the discolored paper. Right where the o in 'love' lay scribbled onto the surface.