The corner of the room by the window looks smaller than I remember. The beige paint of the adjacent wall, where the twin-size bed used to be, is faded and torn.

With the last of the furniture moved out, the room looks like it died.

The house I had lived in for the first half of my life will be demolished at the end of this month; it was sold to a young couple excited about their future. I came back here only to claim what was mine before it was given away or tossed.

My future was never here in this house.