It’s a haven for squatters, an existence altogether abandoned. Every element of it’s lost like us, save for the rotary phone preserved from early pillages and later pilgrimages. The ring is nostalgic, and we let it jingle while lapsing into fantasies of being remembered. Or wanted.
Once, when the memory of mattering hurt too much, I answered the call. His voice was fragile, too delicate to carry through the speaker with any authority behind the order.
When I showed up at his crumbling doorstep, the sandwich bought elsewhere out of my own worm-eaten pocket, he thanked me. And I, him.