The weight of a stranger's living room

I just finished cleaning a flat where someone had died in the bathroom. The carpet was soaked, the walls were stained — but what stuck with me wasn’t the mess. It was the silence in the living room after I’d wiped down the coffee table. There were half-eaten crackers on a plate, a book open to page 147, a mug with dried tea rings. Like they’d just stepped out for milk and never came back. I stood there for ten seconds too long, wondering if the person had been reading something good.