It was already evening, and the light poured from the lace curtains of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room onto the long extending antique window sill. The wood grain of the pine wood curved and turned around and around like a whirlpool of water. That was the end of the time record. She passed through the entrance hall and the main hall, and passed by the wooden walls of the corridor where Johannes Mieville and Katsushika Hokusai hung on the wooden walls. Each painting was silent and as quiet as if the hundreds of years that had passed over them had never existed.
She stopped in front of the door of the penultimate room. The door was closed, but a few sporadic piano beats could be heard coming from inside.
She sat down with her back against the wall.