I was tired beyond words. The events of the last days or years had caught up with me and exhaustion filled me to the brink. The old hotel was hardly peaceful, filled with the sound of creaking timbers and the moan of the ever present wind that somehow penetrated the walls and corridors.

I had helped the old man to his room, relieved that I didn’t have to be reminded of my careworn face any more. It was like turning a mirror to the wall. I found my own room and was on the point of entering when I glanced down the corridor. As though staring into a row of reflected images I saw a multitude of stooped, aging men entering their rooms. It was a momentary aberration and foolishly, I chose to dismiss it.

The room was a cold cube of unconcern, with a window that glared sullenly across the slavering ocean. Rain tapped against the glass, distorting the bleak view. I climbed into bed and stared listlessly at the ceiling, reviewing my life. Things hadn’t gone to plan but then again, there had never been a plan. I could detect the faint odour of pipe tobacco and camphor wood. In the moments before sleep I remembered my childhood and the old carved chest in my father’s room.

I awoke with a jolt and lay under the covers. Nothing had changed in my tiny universe. Gulls keened and the wind sobbed. I rolled over, reached out a hand in the dark and switched on the ornate lamp. When my eyes adjusted to the light I noticed the date on the calendar.