He is in the living room when I get home.
On the floor.
Surrounded by papers and photographs and what looks like architectural drawings spread across the coffee table and the floor around it, cross legged in the middle of it all with his reading glasses on, which I have seen exactly twice before and find unreasonably attractive, and he looks up when I walk in with an expression that is alive and excited in the specific way of someone who found something they were not looking for.
"Sit down," he says. "Look at this."
I drop my bag and sit on the floor beside him and look at the papers.
Old photographs. Black and white, slightly damaged at the edges. The building, but not as it is now, as it was, seventy or eighty years ago judging by the quality and the clothing of the peop
