The room upstairs was exactly what he said it would be.
Clean. A lock on the door. A window that looked out over Pell Lane and the quiet industrial street below. A bed that was plain and practical and made with the particular precision of someone who had been taught to make it a certain way and had never stopped.
A small wooden chair in the corner. A lamp on the floor beside the bed because there was no bedside table. A hook on the back of the door for a coat.
That was everything.
I stood in the doorway and looked at it for a moment.
It was the most stripped back room I had ever been invited to sleep in. No pictures on the walls. No small personal things on surfaces. Nothing that told you anything about the person who had put it together except that they valued function over everythin
