It’s dark outside. And quiet. Not a sound in the house. Just the dim glow of the lamp beside his bed. He holds a book in his hands on his chest waiting for sleep to come. The chapters go by, but it does not come.
He closes the book and sets it on the table. Sets it on a pile of other books from other nights. There are several such piles in the house — a sign, perhaps, of something. He doesn’t want to think about that right now. He rolls over and turns off the lamp.
The room is dark. And quiet. Not a sound in the house.